Gotham Circus
by ScareyBear
Summary: By the time he takes twelve-year-old Richard Grayson under his wing, Bruce thinks that he knows Gotham City by heart. But over the years, a plot that begins with the murder of an acrobat's parents slowly evolves into a web of treacheries that forces Bruce to realize that he is just another piece on a board of higher powers.
1. Chapter 1

I am a Bat-fan wannabe. I've seen the Dark Knight Trilogy, and have read what comics I can, but I don't have access to a lot. So if you're a hardcore comic-lover, sorry about this. I just wanted to write a Batman story, so I did/am. This draws on certain elements and ideas from both movies and comics alike, with some of my own characters as well. So, anyway, enjoy… or not. But leave a review either way!

Disclaimer: Batman/related characters are owned by DC.

* * *

Setting the final fuse on the control box, I move away down the metal catwalk. For an abandoned factory, there's a surprising amount of noise. Mostly because it's only _supposed_ to be abandoned. Various chemical compounds bubble away below me, sending their reeking fumes up into my eyes. But I'm focused. I have a task at hand, and I intend to do it.

Exiting the manufacturing room, I creep into the warehouse. It's well lit—that's his advantage. He's supposed to be able to see me coming. But he's always been a little short on brains. As I enter the room, I see him at the center, and he looks up at me. I let him see me. The more noise he makes, the easier it will be to find him in the dark.

The doors slam shut behind me, and I'm quick to fly behind the storage crates littering the floor. He roars—a grating, gurgling laugh—and I can hear him approaching. "The Batman," he growls. "The Dark Knight. The keeper of order and justice, the criminal's bane!" He tears aside a pile of boxes, sending wooden debris fluttering to the tile. "Trapped like a rat. Or is it a bat? I duck a slash from his claws, which rips through the crate above my head, but still doesn't affect me. He doesn't know where I am. He's guessing. Guessing pretty accurately, trying to follow my original path, but he still has no idea. I could easily step out now, take him down, but I decide to bide my time. I have time. I might as well make a neater job of it.

"YOU CAN'T HIDE FOREVER!" he roars. "WHERE ARE YOU? FACE ME!"

I send a batarang flying behind him, and as it circles around it hits him in the back of his scaly head, causing him to whip around. Of course. Again, brains.

"You can't fight me here," he leers, starting to lumber away. "This is my kingdom."

_Actually,_ I think as I hear a muffled explosion from behind me and the lights go out. _It's mine._

Because bats see best in the dark.

The fight from there is fairly straightforward. An ambush from behind—the element of surprise. Killer Croc is disoriented for a moment. He doesn't need light to fight, but it was a surprise move. A few well-placed kicks. Snout. Tail. Chest, over the heart.

I told Alfred to take a day off. I knew that this was going to be an easy one, and he needed to spend some time with his son. There was a baseball game downtown. Jackson loves baseball. As much as I knew he needed it, I couldn't help but think about the empty batcave back home. Alfred probably left me some soup and tea. At least, I hope he did. If not, I can always dig something out of the fridge.

The Killer Croc is no problem. As I leave him behind, incapacitated and bound, for the police to pick up, I think about how much Alfred's helped me over the past three years. But also, how much he's sacrificed for my sake. For Gotham's sake. Especially after his wife died, and he was left to care for his son. Jackson Pennyworth was a bright spot in Alfred's life, but he did complicate things. Alfred should have taken me up on my offer. But I understand why he didn't.

The Batmobile needs maintenance. A little while ago, one of Croc's henchman had busted up the front left tire. It had been all right, until earlier today. That's when it'd started to wobble. Driving into one of the other abandoned warehouses in Gotham, entering the tunnel concealed there, and traversing the familiar path to the batcave, I can feel it misbehaving.

The batcave. The familiar smell; damp, musty. Cool, humid air streaming between the rocks. I jump out of the Batmobile and pause to take a look at it. I'll deal with it later. I'm done for tonight. Walking up past the main computer console and stowing my mask and cape, I check the screen for any new notices. Updates. Nothing. So I get changed. Like I expected, there's a bowl of clam chowder sitting on a table upstairs, in the manor. Next to it stands a cup of Earl Grey, and some toasted sourdough bread. The soup is only lukewarm—the tea is cold.

With a sigh, I take the tray into the kitchen to refill. It's easy enough. I just think of what Alfred would say if he'd realized that I'd gotten back so late that the food had been cold. He's probably eating with Gordon's family. With Jackson and Jim and Barbara. I hope that he's not worrying about me. I hope, because this is who I decided to be. I wouldn't have taken the role as Gotham's protector if I didn't expect to take care of myself. As much as I like Alfred's company, and look forward to it, I can't rely on it. This is who I am.

I am Batman.

And I am alone.

* * *

Anyway, I'll be putting more up. And I want to give a huge thank you to my friend Riolutae for being my editor. Her anime-crossover fanfic is currently in progress. Check it out!


	2. Chapter 2

"Everything went all right then, sir, I presume?"

I'm trying to cover my head with my pillow to escape the light now penetrating the bedroom, but it becomes hard to breathe, so I pull it off to see Alfred standing by the drawn curtain. He throws open the window, and I can feel a cool breeze flood the air. Judging by the angle of the sunlight—it's maybe one, two o'clock in the afternoon.

I struggle to sit up and notice the tea and toast next to the bed. "Yeah, Alfred. Mr. Jones shouldn't be bothering anyone else for a while."

"Then I hope you take it easy today."

"I have to fix the Batmobile. The left front tire—"

"I will take care of it, sir. What you need to do is drink your tea before it gets cold and go see Haly's circus tonight. It's finally back in Gotham. I've gotten you a ticket for yourself and a friend, if you'd like to take anyone. But take a day, Master Bruce. Take a day."

Alfred is already leaving, but as I slide out of bed and put on a dressing gown, I address him. "Thank you, Alfred. For everything."

"You don't have to thank me, Master Bruce. I've been around far too long for that."

I can't think of anything else to say. Instead, I pick up the two tickets that are neatly tucked under the tray. Tapping them against my palm, I ask "Is Jackson going?"

"He and Miss Gordon are going together."

"You should go too, Alfred. You spend too much time here, instead of with your son. You can _still_ take me up on that offer, you know."

"Master Bruce…" Alfred sighs. "Not to say that you didn't turn out all right, there are better places to raise a child. Here, he would have everything he wanted," he gestured around himself, "but so much more. And so much less. He's in a good place, sir. Down with the Gordon's, maybe he doesn't have his own room. Or as many video games as he'd like. But he has friends; he has a mother. I can still see him as much as I'd like, and life is… simpler. Also, I can tell that Jim appreciates the extra hand."

"All right. But if you want to move him into the manor, you don't even have to ask."

Alfred smile. "I won't. Enjoy your time at the circus, Master Bruce."

_The Flying Graysons,_ says the ticket. The show that they're having at the circus. It starts at six. I can't think of anyone to take, but I decide to go. Crime's been slow. It'd be nice if it stayed that way.

Three hours later it starts to snow. I close the windows against the darkening sky and leave the house. I have to make the conscious decision to take the Lamborghini instead of going to the Batcave. But as I roll through the city, studded with light and iced with frost, I wish that I'd walked. It was a beautiful day to not be noticed.

After I leave my car with a valet, I pull my hat down low and walk the rest of the way to the circus. They've closed off the streets from first to sixth—tents are set up instead, selling food and trinkets and offering to tell your fortune. I watch little children running around shrieking, waving their pretzels and lollipops, dodging around trees but always being called back by their parents. My parents and I did the circus whenever it was in town. Dad would buy us hot dogs—Mom would get a puff of blue cotton candy. Then we'd get front row seats at the show. Afterwards they'd buy coffee and I'd get hot chocolate and we'd just sit and watch the lights and bustle. I'd usually fall asleep around then. They'd have to carry me back to the car.

I realize that I've stopped walking and notice one of the children I'd seen earlier staring at me. He has a wad of cotton candy stuck to his lip. Pink. "You look like Bruce Wayne," he says.

"Yeah," I reply. "I've heard that."

It's getting closer to showtime. I make my way down the increasingly wet, but increasingly crowded and cheerful street. On the sidewalks, the snow has gathered about two inches thick already. But down on the pavement, amid hordes of excited people—it never stood a chance.

I find the biggest tent, set up in the square. I look up at the worn yellow-and-red mass of canvas that's so familiar to me. The sky has long since become a mass of black clouds, glowing orange from the city lights. While some people may find this a sad image of industrialization, it gives me comfort.

It's only when I look down that I notice the girl.

Probably about twelve years old. Obviously homeless. Dark hair shaggily cut, wrapped in a brown coat that's much too large for her. She's sitting on a concrete planter, underneath a slim, skeletal maple. Maybe because of her age, maybe because she's a girl, maybe because she's not begging—everyone gives her a pass. I watch her for a moment. All she's doing is looking up at the tent, then to the other little children running around in excitement. Then she goes back to intently studying the ground, and the people passing by.

It would be easy for anyone to think she was just looking for money, but I was able to put it together. What she really wanted was a ticket.

I consider personally giving her my extra, but then I think of the stupid paparazzi that always seemed to pop up, and the media, and what everyone would most certainly consider as a publicity stunt. So instead I walk by her while fidgeting with my hand inside my pocket. I make sure that one of the tickets is pushed out and falls to the ground. I walk a good ways down the street until I find a vendor that sells blue cotton candy. Candy in hand, I forge back up the street and find that the ticket is gone, and so is the girl.

I'm happy as I enter the tent. It's the first time that I've been back to Haly's since my parents died. But it's all right. Maybe I'm not here with them—but things are going all right.

However, I soon discover that that thought is only an illusion. And by the abrupt, catastrophic end of the show I'm sitting there speechless, wondering how I could have ever entered that tent with the thought that things were going to be all right.

* * *

_One hour ago_

"Raya?"

He heard giggling from behind a nearby booth. Dodging around it, he saw Raya disappearing down the next street. "You can't catch me, Dick!"

"Raya, give it back!" Dick ran after her, finally being able to vault over a planter that she'd had to swerve to avoid. Landing in front of her, he stuck out his hand. "Raya, I have to be back at the tent in five minutes! You know that I only have an hour before showtime!"

Raya pouted. "Fine." She gave back his lucky pin that she'd snatched from his trailer a few minutes earlier. "You work too much now. Remember when you were too young to do the show and we'd just run around and eat cotton candy all day?"

"I used to miss it… but now I wouldn't trade back for anything. You coming to the show?"

"I'm sorry, Dick, I can't—I have to help my mum run her booth."

Dick was busy tucking the pin back into his pocket. "It's okay, Raya. You've seen it too many times before."

He'd scarcely looked back up when she threw her arms around him. "Then good luck, my Flying Grayson."

He blushed, but she was gone.

As he ran back through the street, Dick's head was swirling. A few years ago, he'd told his father that he thought Raya was pretty, but his father had just said, "Son, I'd hold off on thinking about women just yet. Nine-year-olds have other stuff to deal with. Just be a gentleman. Try not to get on her bad side. Oh, and uh," his father had poked his head back into the Grayson trailer, on his way to the show, "by the way… girls like gifts." He'd winked and then left.

The next day, Dick had found Raya playing with one of her dolls behind the fortune-telling booth. She'd looked up. "Hi, Dick."

"Hi." He knew he was stammering, but still managed to extend his hand to her. "I made this for you."

It was his best attempt at a necklace. He had no idea what she'd think, as it was mostly spare parts on a piece of string. A few bottlecaps, watch gears, and the little silver cat charm he'd found on the sidewalk a few months ago. He'd been keeping it in a box, wondering what to do with it.

She'd taken it and looked it over. Then she'd smiled and pulled him into one of the tightest hugs he'd ever experienced. "It's beautiful!"

Even though he couldn't see a thing through the tangle of red hair that his face was then stuck in, he was smiling too.

Though they were now both twelve, she still wore the necklace and Dick was still hopeful.

"_Richard John Grayson!_"

He raced into the backstage area of the tent. "Here! I'm here!"

He was facing the angry visage of his mother. "Where have you been? For goodness sake, it's showtime in forty minutes! You're supposed to be practicing your act. You know that we can't use the net during performance!"

"Ma, you've seen me," he said, sheepishly. "I haven't needed a net since I was ten."

She was quite the image, smoldering down at him from her height (not great, but greater than his). She was already in full performance uniform, purple and blue spandex. She appeared to snort flames for a second more before she laughed and threw his own red, green, and yellow costume at him. "Come on, son, get changed. And don't go wandering off again."

"I won't, Ma."

"Checked the wires for the performance," said Dick's father, ducking under the tent flap. He was also in full costume, ready for the show. "They're sound and in prime condition." He noticed Dick. "Ah, so you've found the little devil. Playing with Raya, were you, son?"

"Sorry, Dad. Won't happen again."

His father chuckled. "I'm sure it won't." As he passed Dick, he whispered, "Did you notice that she polishes the cat charm?"

Dick grinned as he got ready to get back up where he was comfortable—flying through the sky.

* * *

Tana shivered and shifted position. She wasn't sure if she wanted to give up and go home, or give in and pickpocket a ticket off of someone. Or sneak in. But no, if she was caught sneaking into the Grayson show, then she might get into legal trouble, and that was something that she needed to avoid.

She couldn't _buy_ a ticket, of course. She saved her money for food. She'd spent all of her money from the last job stocking up. The circus food was very cheap. And they had an astoundingly large selection of dried fruit and meat, which would keep well.

But she wanted two things—one, to watch. She spent all of her free time haunting Gotham's alleyways and sneaking out at night to pull thievery jobs for crime bosses. It didn't even pay very well. So… no circus shows. It was simple—she was tired of it. She was twelve. Even if she was used to her life, every once in a while she just wanted one night to pretend she was a normal kid.

But then, after the show, she wanted to see if she could get a job at the circus. Maybe she'd be able to give up the sorry excuse for a life that she had in Gotham. If she had a ticket to the show she might be able to get in now… and then not be chased out of the area later. Gotham police and homeless people.

So she was sitting, watching. Looking for any dropped tickets or cash.

She pulled her coat tighter around herself again. Plenty of these people were from Gotham's upper crust. If she stole their ticket, they'd just get a new one.

She sighed. Or maybe she should just skip the show and come back later.

She had always been like this, always hesitant, always conflicted, from the moment she'd decided to run away from the orphanage. If she'd chosen to stay, she would have had food, shelter and an education (even if it was a terrible one). She'd chosen to leave—so in a way, she'd chosen to live as a thief. But was there a choice, really? Living free, or living in the sorry abusive madhouse that was called a foster home?

And then, with the stealing… she'd used her size to her advantage. She'd learned to be silent, to infiltrate even some of the highest security penthouses with nothing but a knife and some stolen gadgets. She didn't really care about inconveniencing the people she stole from—if she cared about anything, it was the fact that she was doing something morally wrong. But should she care, really? This was Gotham, after all. If no one was going to give her a job (and she had tried) what else was she supposed to do?

Tana shifted again. This was exactly why she hated sitting still. She thought too much. It gave her a headache. Looking up at the tent above her, lit by spotlights, then down at two children of a rich-looking family who were playing around nearby, she decided to just give up and pick someone's pocket. Scanning the ground one last time, fruitlessly, she was about to get down when she noticed a man walking by. He seemed upset or something—fidgety. But he had two tickets sticking out of his coat pocket. As his hand twitched around inside his coat, one of the tickets came loose and fluttered to the ground.

He didn't seem to notice. Instead, he walked away, and once he was a good distance down the street Tana leapt down and snatched the ticket off the ground. She couldn't tell if it he'd done it on purpose, or if he would turn around in a minute, looking for his other ticket, but she didn't care. She had her ticket.

She smirked, before slipping the ticket into her pocket and sloshing off to get in line.

* * *

Just to make it clearer, I've added some new characters as well as reinterpreting some of the original ones.

- Batman is owned by DC. -


	3. Chapter 3

_Showtime_

There was something exhilarating about waiting up in the support beams of the tent. High above everyone else, but not being afraid. Dick had been up there far too often to be even remotely afraid of heights.

It was especially exciting when the crowd was so enthralled that it was nearly silent, except for the periodical ooh and aah at the aerial acrobatics being performed in front of their eyes. Dick scanned the crowd, hoping for Raya. Maybe her mom let her out early. He was going to be able to do a couple new tricks for this show, and wanted her to see. He couldn't find her, but did see a few interesting characters. A retired lion tamer—one of the Grayson's old friends. A pair of teenagers—a boy and a girl, they looked like twins—who were asleep in their seats. Dick was offended, but moved on. A vagrant girl, sitting in the back. And way up front, was that—Bruce Wayne?

It was one of his favorite parts of being with the circus. You got to _meet_ people. You got to experience things that no other kid could. Life may be frugal, but it was full of adventure. Dick had been in the circus his whole life, employed since birth at Haly's to work with his parents. Some of the "normal" children he'd met thought that was funny. They asked him if he didn't get tired of being around the same people his whole life. Having to deal with his parents all the time. Dick would laugh right back at them, because he knew that while they probably longed to get away from adults, he had grown into exactly the person he wanted to be because they were there. Even the little things, like his father telling him ghost stories during thunderstorms, or his mother applauding his trapeze work, affectionately calling him her "little spring robin" despite protests. Something about how his parents raised him. Somehow it had all added up.

He noticed a sudden burst of applause and realized that his parents were reaching the climax of their act, meaning that he was up next. He started to cross over to the edge of the platform, where his mother would swing in to grab him. That's when a paper airplane came soaring out of nowhere to hit him in the side of the face.

"Ow," he muttered. "What is…" picking it up, he noticed writing. Looking up and seeing that he still had a few minutes until go-time, he quickly flattened it out. It was a poem.

_The scene is set, the spotlights lit,_

_the actors running center stage_

_but since they wouldn't play their parts_

_they'll have to face the playwrights' rage._

_The jesters choose a tragedy_

_to earn the encore from the town_

_but for the birds who defied our court_

_it's certainly a long way down._

Dick looked down at the message, disbelieving, then back up at his parents flying on their wires. He recognized the music playing. The formation. It was nearly his cue. He looked at his mother, who was wearing a beaming smile and looking over in his direction. But as he looked at his father, he noticed the usually calm, confident face flicker a moment into the rafters where the wires were secured. In that moment—that eternal moment—time seemed to freeze. Dick couldn't tear his eyes away from the dark space in the rafters where the wire disappeared. But he also couldn't rid his mind of the image of his father's face. His expression when he realized—when they both realized—

Dick snapped back to the present and ran to the railing, screaming, "_MOM! DAD!" _Two snaps, followed by a trailing cord of whipping wire. "_NO!" _As he watched his mother's smile turn to panic and his father's unease transition to horror, Dick was gripping the railing, leaning as far out as he could, as though he could somehow catch them. But there was nothing he could do other than look on as they plummeted. "_NOOO!"_

Just before they hit the ground, Dick saw his father reach out and take his mother's hand.

* * *

People in the crowd were hushed, whispering, standing up to get a better look at the two broken bodies in the center of the ring. Even the two kids who'd been sleeping in front of Tana had the respect to wake up. Tana herself stayed where she was.

She didn't know the performers. None of these people did. That's why they were able to look so—interested. But she had noticed something. The _Flying Graysons_. It was a family act. As the performers fell, she'd heard screaming from up in the tent supports. The yells of an anguished little boy.

What was it like? she wondered. To have a parent. To _lose_ a parent. Surely he didn't _need_ his parents to survive… she never had. And she'd run away at seven.

She decided to hang back. After everything had blown over, she could try and get a job. At least they had openings now.

Tana was sinking farther into her seat when a paper flower hit the back of her head. She looked around, not overly angry (since she'd had things thrown at her before) but wanting to know who she could count as an enemy. Finding no one, she reached down and picked up the crinkled blossom, which seemed like it'd been folded out of some type of used stationary. Painstakingly picking it open, she read a seemingly nonsensical message:

_Unless you wish to get the same_

_you'll leave here now and play the game._

What was it? An old discarded letter? Tana then noticed how stiff the paper was, how fresh. The message had just been written—written after two deaths. And "the same"… it couldn't be anything other than a death threat. But it couldn't be for her—

At the bottom of the page was a sketch of a spider frozen in amber.

Tana leapt out of her seat, trying to ignore the fact that the blood was draining from her face. Crunching the letter into a ball and stuffing it into her pocket, she scanned the crowd one last time for someone, anyone who stood out. Whoever had orchestrated these deaths—and they had to have been by design—they were in here. And for some reason they were blackmailing her to get her to leave.

Even though she had never been more confused in her life… even though she had no idea what was happening… even though the thing that she hated most about herself was her tendency to run… she ducked under the tent flap behind her and into the snowy night.

And she ran.

* * *

_Present_

The flashing lights of the ambulance are blinding. They remind me of the night that _my _parents died. The vehicle parked, but not active. The attendants standing around, talking, because they know that they are far too late to save their marks.

I pull my head back inside the tent. Even though the police had been trying to herd everyone out, a small crowd still remained near the center of the tent. They should have lost interest long ago, except that now the bodies were joined by a little boy. He looked to be about twelve. He was kneeling between then, each of his hands on one of theirs, and crying openly with no move to hide it. He could only be their son.

I walk over to Police Lieutenant Gordon. He's the one who contacts me as Batman; my link to the GCPD. He doesn't know Batman's true identity, of course. But he can recognize Bruce Wayne on sight.

"What a night, Wayne," he said. He's holding his radio and leaning against a tent support.

"Did your people look into the cause of the breakage?"

He makes a helpless hand gesture. "Did. Nothing but wear and tear."

We both look over at the boy being led away from his parents by the police. Gordon lowers his voice. "Poor kid."

"Who is he?"

"Richard Grayson, son of John and Mary Grayson. Goes by Dick. They perform together as aerial acrobats, or at least they did. He—" he cuts off abruptly, and I turn around to see an apologetic looking policeman and the young Grayson's hollow face.

"Sorry, Lieutentant," says the officer. "But the boy wanted to talk to you. He thinks that his parents were killed on purpose. I told him that we've checked the wires and that they –"

"He checked the wire!" the boy interjects angrily. "My dad checked them, just before the show, and he said they were brand new!" He swung around to face Gordon. "My dad would never make a mistake like that!"

"Son," says Gordon heavily, "Check them. They weren't new—they were at least two months old. We found the date stamped on the fastener."

The wires have been coiled up on the floor, and Gordon bends down to pick up the end of one, handing the kid the twisted piece of metal. He looks at it in disbelief before throwing it to the ground. "Please, sir, you have to believe me," he says. "Something here is out of place." He shoves a piece of paper into Gordon's hands. "Look!"

Gordon scans the paper before handing it to me. It's a poem; an artistic death threat. But it looks handwritten. The writing is even childish. Dick could have written it himself. He keeps on talking.

"Someone threw that at me minutes before the wires snapped. It can't be a coincidence. Someone killed my parents on purpose!"

I tuck the paper into my pocket, but no one notices. "Son…" says Gordon, laying a hand on Dick's shoulder.

"I'm not lying!" Dick pushes Gordon's hand away. "I'm not—I'm not—" there's a moment in which he's trying to hold back tears and loses his voice, and the detective who brought him to us leads him away.

Gordon sighs through his nose.

I look after Dick's shaking figure. "What's going to happen to him?"

"Foster home," Gordon says, looking pained. "I talked to the circus guys—they won't take him without his parents. Apparently he's not worth enough without the complete set. I wish there were an alternative, but what else?"

And all of a sudden I'm eight years old, watching the police taking away my parents' bodies, and Alfred's there, putting a blanket over my shoulders.

"Poor kid," Gordon says again.

"I'll take him," I say. You could call it a whim, but it's something a lot more personal.

"What?"

"I'm going to take him back to the manor. I'll take care of him."

"You're adopting him?" Gordon nearly drops the cigarette he's been fumbling to light.

"I guess so. It's not like I don't have the space or the money."

"Well yeah, but… still, I…" Gordon sticks his smoke back in his pocket. "I'd never peg you as that kinda person, Wayne."

"I'm usually a lot more than people would peg me as," I say in dark humor as I walk away.

As I go to find the Grayson kid, I see the same detective standing by his shoulder as one of the circus managers talks to him. I can see him gesturing wildly, face getting darker and darker at the manager's head-shaking and finger-fidgeting until he jumps up and tries to have a go at the man. The detective is able to grab him before he does any damage, and the manager walks away unscathed.

"You can go on, Detective," I say as I approach them. "I'll look after him."

The detective nods and hurries away, but Dick doesn't even look up. Without the hundreds of people inside the tent providing their body heat, he's starting to shiver underneath his spandex costume. I sit myself down next to him.

"I'm Bruce Wayne," I say.

"I know."

"That guy just give you the news?" I ask, gesturing to the manager's disappearing coattails.

"Yes. Jerk."

"You don't have to worry, you're not going to a foster home. I'm taking you back to my place."

"I don't want to go to your place," he said, turning away. "I want to stay here."

I don't know how to talk to him. I was never that good with kids. So I drop the pretenses and go straight to the reason why I wanted to help him.

"Kid… I know what you're going through."

I can tell by his angry face that he doesn't understand. "You have no idea what—"

"No. I do. Do you know what happened to my parents?"

He finally looks up at me, and I continue. "We were leaving the theater one night, the three of us walking together through an alleyway. We'd left early, so no one else was there with us. This man came out of the shadows; I later found out that his name was Joe Chill. He was just a robber, and was trying to get my dad's wallet and my mother's necklace. He ended up shooting both of them. They died in that alley while the man took their things and ran for it. I was eight."

He's silent for a few seconds. Then he speaks up with a "Did they catch him? The man who killed them?"

"Yes."

I can see his fists tighten. "I need to catch them. Whoever did this, they are going to pay."

He sees me looking at him and stands up. "Look, I know what the cops have told you and what it looks like. But I _know_ that this was murder. I know that I will be able to prove—"

"Kid, I believe you."

His eyes go wide. "You… do?"

"I believe that you really do think that this was a homicide. And while I personally can't say one way or another—yet—I also believe that this needs a full investigation. Though maybe…" I look over at the lingering cops. "…without police interference."

The tears have long since gone from his eyes, instead replaced by cold steel. "You'd help me do that?"

"I'm not sure how much I can do, but I will do as much as I can. Plus, I've got some friends that could probably help out. Just come back to my place. Please. I think that you've been through enough tonight."

He looks back towards the center of the ring, where the police have finally started to take down their tape, and I say more softly, "I'm not going to try to replace them, kid. Trust me. I know that I never could anyway."

He finally looks like he's calmed down. He looks from side to side, then says, "I'll go and… get my stuff."

I watch him shove his way out of the tent, and put in a quick call to Alfred. When I ask him to prepare a room, I have to explain to make it one of the residential ones. He handles the situation and the news the way that he's handled everything over the years—smoothly and calmly. "Very good, sir. You may rest assured that our new young Master Grayson will be very comfortable."

As I go out to wait, I can see Dick a little ways down, talking to a girl. Bright red hair, looks about his age. By the way that she's crying, I'm guessing that she's a family friend. He talks to her for a few seconds, then points backwards. When she looks up and sees me, I can see anger in her face. At me. She yells something at him and storms off.

He's completely silent by the time that he arrives back at the tent entrance, carrying a full bag and wearing a change of street clothes. I'm thinking of asking him about it, but I can tell by his face that it's a bad time.

So all I say is, "Chin up, kid. It gets better."

He follows me wordlessly down the street.

* * *

Please drop us a review! I'm always on the lookout for constructive criticism.

(Batman/related characters are owned by DC)


	4. Chapter 4

_A few minutes earlier_

Dick's head was swimming. He didn't want to sort through his feelings; they were self-explanatory. Anger, grief, confusion. They were all there, for obvious reasons. He didn't need to take an inventory.

He was in such a state of mind that he didn't notice Raya until she was right in front of him, shouting his name. "Richard Grayson, talk to me!"

"Hi, Raya." He tried to say it in a lighthearted way, but it came out flat and weak.

When she threw her arms around him and started to sob, he almost wanted to break down and cry again. He didn't even care that he was in front of Raya. But he wasn't going to. His energy was needed elsewhere.

As her tears slowed down, Raya was trying to talk to him. "I'm—so—so—sorry. I just c—can't believe what hap—ppened." She pulled away. "Are you okay?"

"Honestly, Raya? I don't know."

"Come back to our trailer," she said, taking his arm with one hand and wiping her eyes with the other. "I don't know if you want to talk about it, or… or anything. But mum says that you can stay with us while the circus moves. Until you're up high enough and the circus pays you enough to afford your own place." He could tell by her face that this was no easy decision—life at Haly's was frugal. Madame Vestri made enough to support herself and Raya, but adding him—even with any wages that he might have earned—would have made life hard.

"I want you to tell your mom that I'm honored, grateful, and humbled," said Dick. Unable to maintain eye contact, he forced out, "but I can't. I talked to one of CC Haly's assistants. With my parents out of the show and me only half-trained, they don't want me anymore. They fired me. I can't go with the circus."

"What?!" Dick had never seen Raya look so angry. "I'm gonna go right down there and pound Haly's ugly head into the—" she broke off. "That doesn't mean that you can't come with us! You can still live in our trailer—"

"And do what? Leech money? The manager guy also mentioned a legal thing. You'd need to legally adopt me, which your mom couldn't do because her yearly wage isn't high enough and she hasn't gotten her US citizenship yet."

"You _can't_ go into Gotham foster care, Dick. You just can't."

"I won't. Bruce Wayne was in the audience, and for some reason, he's taken an interest in me. I'm going to his house right now."

Raya looked over his shoulder, but Dick didn't turn around. "So _that's_ the deal? You're allowed to go with some starch-briefed billionaire dude who doesn't give a damn about you, but not with the people who have been with you since you could barely walk?"

"Raya, I didn't ask for this to happen—"

"But you agreed to it?"

"Raya—"

"Did you?!"

"Of course I did! It was the only option left, and he said that he'd help me figure out who killed my mom and dad!"

For once, she looked shaken. "Killed them? But they said it was an accident."

"That's what it's supposed to look like, but I know better, Raya. It _wasn't_ an accident."

She shook her head. "You're chasing ghosts, Dick. Have fun at the big shot's mansion."

She tried to leave, but Dick grabbed her by the shoulder. "Raya, _listen to me_. This is exactly the last thing that I want to happen. It's happening, and I can't control it."

For once, her face softens. "I'm sorry, Dick. I am so, so sorry about your parents. But I know you. If you really wanted to stay here, with us—you'd find a way."

She looked like she was expecting an answer, but he was unable to think of one. By the time anything occurred to him, Raya had long since disappeared into the shadows.

* * *

_Present_

Once we pull up to the mansion, I lead the way up to the door. I look down at the kid next to me, but he's staring at the steps despondently, bag in hand. I'm about to unlock the door when it swings open to reveal Alfred.

"Ah, Master Bruce. Glad to have you back."

"Thanks, Alfred," is all I can say back as I bring Dick inside. "This is Dick Grayson. The one who's going to be staying with us for a while. Dick, this is my butler Alfred."

"A pleasure, young Master Grayson." Alfred bends over and offers his hand to the boy. At first I think that he's not going to take it, but Dick finally looks up. He gives a weak smile and shakes Alfred's hand.

"That's cool," he says. "I've never had a butler before."

"I'm sure that you'll find it most helpful," says Alfred. "Now, would you like the grand tour of the place, or would you like to be shown straight to your room?"

"How about we go straight to his room," I cut in, "and Alfred, could you bring him something to drink?"

"Right away, sir."

Dick seems to be warming up to the place. He's looking around as I lead him up the stairs, not saying anything, but not looking resentful either. I push open the door to the room that I had Alfred prepare, and take him inside. It's not too big, but big enough. Four poster bed, large arching windows looking over the sloping grounds behind the manor. Rug, desk, bookshelf. Standards.

As he looks around, I say, "I think you'll be comfortable here. You're free to explore the manor, providing that you don't go into my room or Alfred's without permission. Bathroom is at the end of the hall. I'll see what we can do about school for you—"

He looks up, but doesn't say anything.

"—and if you need anything, let Alfred know."

He throws his bag down onto the bed, but turns back to me, the glint in his eyes saying that he's not to be distracted from his real purpose. "So when are we going to start figuring out who killed my parents?"

"Soon. Trust me. But don't let your emotions get in the way. That's what happened to me. And if it makes you feel any better—" I look over my shoulder, knowing that Alfred won't like what I'm about to say, "—I've got a bunch of contacts all over town. One of them knows the Batman."

That actually stops him cold. "You think—you think that the Batman will help?"

"Batman stands for justice, kid, and he specializes in cases that the police can't crack. I'll see if I can get a message to him. And one last thing." I pull the creased poem out of my pocket and hand it to him. "Never let go of your most important piece of evidence."

And with that, I leave.

Once I'm in the hall, I nearly run into Alfred. He's carrying two mugs, and looks surprised to see me. "Leaving so soon, sir?"

"Yes," I say. "Why?"

"Well, it seems that you two have quite a bit to talk about. There's nothing else you wish to tell him about your parents, or their deaths, or...anything, sir?"

"No, Alfred." I look down at his tray and notice the second cup. "You can have that." As I walk away, I can hear him going into the room and starting up a conversation.

Being a father himself, I trust him to be able to take better care of Dick than I can. And besides… I have places to be.

Turning a corner and pushing open a wall panel, I step into the concealed lift and descend into the Batcave.

* * *

(Batman/related characters are owned by DC comics)


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks, Callypse, the review is much appreciated. And yes, I wrote the poem myself, but it took a couple of tries and help from my friend/editor (frienditor?) Riolutae.

To make things less confusing, I'd like to point out that when told from Dick's perspective, I use 3rd person limited POV, past tense. For Batman it's first person, present tense. You probably already noticed, and I'm sorry it's so confusing, but I thought I'd clear things up.

* * *

Dick had never seen such a big house before in his life. Wait, no, manor. That's what they kept calling it, and he had to start thinking of it like that. It made sense. No houses _were_ that big—manors, on the other hand…

As he followed Bruce Wayne up the stairs, he could hardly keep track of all his thoughts. Twenty-four hours ago, he'd been eating dinner with his parents, and Raya, and Madame Vestri. Now his parents were dead, and he didn't know if he'd ever be seeing Raya again.

On top of that, he was going to live with billionaire Bruce Wayne, who had taken an interest in him because his own parents had died when he was eight. Not that Dick wasn't grateful… but he honestly didn't think that Bruce Wayne really gave squat about him.

The only thing holding Dick together was that one thought, that one driving passion—he was going to find the people who did this, and he was going to make them pay. Wayne could help him do that.

Even though he knew that Wayne was really, really rich, he was surprised when the door was opened by a man in a suit. Wayne introduced him as his butler, Alfred.

Dick said the only thing to pop into his head. "That's cool. I've never had a butler before."

"I'm sure you'll find it most helpful," said Alfred.

Wayne took him up the stairs and into a bedroom. Dick was, again, astounded. He'd lived in a trailer with his parents all his life. He could easily have parked the trailer into the space being given to him now, and still had room to fit a second.

He looked around at the room's furnishings. It was all wood, all polished, all probably antique. The rug was woven with some kind of vine motif. There were two glass doors at the end of the room that led onto a balcony. He couldn't even appreciate that his bed hangings were blue because he'd never seen so huge a bed before.

He was only vaguely listening as Wayne talked to him, but he did look up at the mention of finding him a school. Dick had never been to school. His parents had taught him everything he knew, and that was everything he'd needed to know.

But as Wayne wound down, Dick voiced the only thing that he could clearly think about. "So when are we going to start figuring out who killed my parents?"

After Wayne had explained things to him and left, he was _really_ stunned. Wayne had contact with Batman? If he really went through on that, they'd be able to figure out who killed his parents in no time at all. But still, he thought, looking down at the crumpled piece of paper that Wayne had handed him… he might as well get a head start.

Taking it over to the desk by the window and flattening it out, he reread the poem.

_The scene is set, the spotlights lit,_

_the actors running center stage_

_but since they wouldn't play their parts_

_they'll have to face the playwrights' rage._

_The jesters choose a tragedy_

_to earn the encore from the town_

_but for the birds who defied our court_

_it's certainly a long way down._

So the first lines were talking about the plan to kill his parents. The scene was 'set', meaning that the plan was already in motion. His parents had to be the actors, their deaths being the tragedy and the playwrights' rage.

But what was this about not playing their parts? And what court did they belong to?

"Master Grayson?"

"Oh," he said, turning around to see Alfred. "Hi."

Alfred set down his tray on the bed. "I've brought some hot cocoa, sir, to take away the chill of the night and today's tragic events. I'd like you to know that I am deeply sorry for your loss. And you must understand that Master Bruce shares the sentiment. He simply seems to lack the warmest of personalities."

"Thanks, Alfred." Dick didn't know what else to say.

"You know," Alfred continued, handing him one of the mugs and pulling up a chair. "Master Bruce doesn't have the most experience involving social interactions in general, let alone the needs of a child. If there's anything you require, young sir, be sure to inform me."

"I will, Alfred. Do you have any kids?"

Alfred laughed. "I have raised Master Bruce since he was a young boy, and so you could say that he was my first child. Still… I do have my own son. His name is Jackson."

"But… you live here, don't you? Does he?"

"Ah, no, sir. The thing is…" Alfred looked uncomfortable. "He lived with his mother for the longest time. And she lived far from here. I met her in the service and she didn't wish to leave… but you don't want to hear my life story. She died five years ago, and I decided to have Jackson stay down in the city with some friends."

Dick was curious. Having never met many butlers before, he was surprised and happy to see that Alfred did not play the role of a servant, but that of an assistant. And he seemed to genuinely care. So it was easy for Dick to warm up to him quickly.

"Why? Didn't Wayne let him live up here?"

"He did offer me that option, but I made an executive decision. I didn't want Jackson to grow up on top of a hill, away from other children and the rest of civilization. He had lost too much for me to allow him to lose his childhood. James Gordon is a close family friend. He and his wife take care of Jackson. And to be honest, Jackson and I never interacted that much over the years. Even though I can visit him whenever I'd like, this isn't that much different." Alfred set down his cup. "I'll take you down there soon and introduce you."

"Don't feel rushed, Alfred. If you think that I need to make friends, I really don't."

"All children need friends, Master Grayson."

"What I need," Dick said, "is to catch the people who killed my parents. After that, I don't care." He stood up. "Thank you, Alfred. I should probably get to bed." His eyes drifted to the poem still lying on the desk, and he promised himself that he'd get back to it after Alfred left.

Alfred sighed, setting both mugs back on the tray and picking it up. "Rest well, sir."

"You don't have to call me that."

Alfred looked back at him. "I daresay that I don't _have _to do anything, Master Grayson. What I do is what I choose to do and nothing more. I shall address you in the way that I feel you should be. Therefore, Master Grayson, sleep well."

Dick was smiling as Alfred left. Then he went back over to his desk and got back to work on the poem.

* * *

I don't even bother to look up from my screen as I hear Alfred exiting the lift that goes back up to the manor. I'm concentrating on the data that I have set out in front of me, on what happened at the circus tent. I've sent a wave over to Gordon, asking him to leave the scene alone. As Batman, of course. He seemed surprised but agreed to make sure his men didn't clean up.

I don't want to go just yet. I know that I'm doing a delicate dance here, taking this investigation with Dick in the manor. If I'm not careful, he could start to suspect. But it's done. He's here. I'll find a way.

"Is he settled in, Alfred?"

"Quite, Master Bruce. Though my attempt at a conversation that started out very well did crash and burn eventually. He has only one thing on his mind, and that's catching the people whom he believes had his parents murdered. He reminds me of someone else, in fact."

"Mm." I look over the data that I have. Not enough. There's that poem that I gave back to Dick, but I can't remember the exact wording—I need to get another look at it.

I'm getting up when Alfred lays a hand on my shoulder. "Don't forget to try and bond with him, Master Bruce. Talk with him. Be there for him. Don't forget why you took him in."

I look at him. "Alfred, I took him in because he saw his parents killed right in front of his eyes, just like I did. He didn't have any place to go, so I gave him one. I want to help him get through this, Alfred, but I didn't take him in to become his father."

"Ah, but you're forgetting the final reason, sir. The one that you probably don't even realize exists."

"Alfred, what are you trying to say?"

Alfred sets down a sandwich next to my keyboard. "You can't pretend that you're not lonely, Master Bruce."

That was enough to stop even me for a moment. "I didn't adopt that boy because I thought I needed _company_ Alfred—"

"Maybe you don't think you did. But you have a young boy in the house; a boy who just lost his father. Think about it, Master Bruce. Think about it." A few seconds later, I hear the lift whirring back up its chute.

I decide to think about it later. In a few minutes I'm kneeling on roof tiles, cloak and cowl donned. It's time to make good on Bruce Wayne's promise.

Using my grappling hook, I'm able to find Dick's window. I can see him sitting inside on his bed, flashlight in hand, closely scrutinizing a crumpled scrap of paper. He reaches down to mark something in the notebook open on his bed, and yawns.

By the time the yawn is over, I'm on his balcony, with the doors open. "Grayson."

He looks up, and scrambles off his bed. "Batman?"

"I got a message about what happened tonight. I think it warrants an investigation."

The boy gives a surprised whistle. "Wayne's fast, I'll give him that." Then he holds out the piece of paper to me, and his notebook. "This is all I've got. It's a poem that someone threw at my head a couple minutes before the wires snapped. It'd been folded into a paper airplane. I've been looking over it, and I have some ideas as to what it means, so I wrote them all down in here." He taps the notebook. "I don't know how much it'll help—"

"It will help." I take both items. "I'll do what I can."

"Wait," he says. I have the items and I'm poised to leave, but he's holding my arm. I can't tell if he's desperate or angry, or both. "I want to help. My parents were just _murdered_ right in front of me. You can't expect me to sit here do nothing!"

I'm about to shrug his hand off and swing away. Or tell him that I work best alone. But then, again, I think about my parents. My fervor after their deaths, searching frantically to find something larger than mugging to be responsible for their shootings. I imagine a masked knight setting out to do the job for me, but expecting me to stand by and stew until he cracked the case.

Then I shake my head. I'm being too sentimental. I flip open the notebook and tear out the page that he's written on, before tossing back the rest. "Keep thinking. I'll tell you if I find something. But for your safety, don't go back to the circus." As he catches the notebook, he looks down at it.

That's my exit.

I'm out the window and halfway to the ground when I hear him shout behind me. "Bring these people to justice, Batman!"

I know he can't hear me, but as I drop into the waiting Batmobile seat, I mutter, "I will."

* * *

Dick watched the Batman rappel to the ground, where he had his famous Batmobile waiting. The circus stopped in Gotham enough that he knew all about Batman, and what he could do. He was in awe as he watched the car screech around the manor's corner. He could hear it roaring down the drive and into the city, and wondered where it was going.

As he walked over to his bed, he was so overcome with exhaustion from the day's events that he dropped onto it and fell asleep immediately.

* * *

(Batman/related characters are property of DC Comics)


	6. Chapter 6

It's nearly ten by the time I finally wake up. After getting the evidence from Dick, I'd seen the Bat signal and taken down a crime boss for Gordon. He'd been associated with Killer Croc. I hadn't meant to stay out any later, since I wanted to avoid suspicion, but I also try my best to do my only job—protect Gotham. Once I'm dressed and I've eaten the toast that Alfred left for me, I pad onto the landing above the main atrium to see Alfred showing Dick around.

"And here, Master Grayson, is a portrait of Master Bruce with his parents. It was the last one ever painted, done when Master Bruce was about seven years of age. If you'll come with me, I can show you around the grounds… the thermometer reads fifty-two this morning, so if you want your coat I have it here…"

As Alfred hands Dick his coat, I can see the boy look up around the hall. He sees me watching from the railing, and waves. In the morning light, it's astounding how different he looks. The t-shirt and jeans of a normal child make him appear younger, more like the boy that he is. And he seems happier.

"Good morning, Mr. Wayne. Batman came to see me last night." His eyes are fairly glowing. "He's going to look into my parents' deaths. Thank you."

"The least I could do, Dick."

He turns around and follows Alfred out the door.

I need to get to work on that case. I decide to work on the poem until noon rolls around.

Using the nearest passage, the grandfather clock at the entrance of the west wing, I descend into the Batcave. It started out as a cave under the manor, where I stowed my batsuit and other gear. With Alfred's help, I'd managed to make it my nerve center. Databases containing information on all of the super-villains I'd ever faced, and everything else there was to know about Gotham. State-of-the-art security. Medical station, machine shop, pads for storing different bat-vehicles. Stepping inside, I can see that my current Batmobile has a new left front tire.

Striding over to the computers that I use to contact the GCPD and to access the databases, I pick the poem and note-page off of the desk. Dick had already managed to figure out most of what I could glean from the poem. After I read it for the second time, I knew that no matter what I told myself about being open to anything, I agreed with Dick. I trusted that he hadn't written the death threat himself as a cover up… and if _he_ hadn't…

_Scene set/spotlights lit - plan to kill mom/dad in action_

_actors-mom/dad playwrights' rage/tragedy- murders_

_Playing parts?_

_Jesters- perpetrators. Unknown. Jester=Joker? Jesters plural= Joker/Harley? Last known, still in Arkham_

_court- Court Jesters? Jesters working for a higher power; court of their masters (Court of Owls?)_

I'll have to talk to Dick about the Court of Owls before he becomes too excited. As much as it seems like it should be real-it just isn't.

But what's bothering me is the part about "jesters" and "court". Dick is right—Joker and Harley _are_ still in Arkham. So if they had any part in this, they would have to be the higher power, not the actual henchmen. And even that seems unlikely, since they don't have any kind of history with Haly's. I have such frustratingly little to go off of. If I want to find the larger power behind all this, I'll have to find the jesters first.

But I'm not sure who they are either, and I always hate meeting a new foe for the first time.

Come two o'clock, I haven't gotten any farther. But I let it pass, and get up. It's time to go the last place that anyone wants to be.

It's not raining, but the sky is blanketed by steely clouds as we stand on top of the hill for the funeral services. Even as the preacher closes his Bible and the few people who came start to disperse the somber cloud, Dick hasn't shed a single tear. I remember this part. After the initial shock comes the numbness. The time when everyone's watching you, and you're still having a hard time believing that the graves going into the ground belong to your parents. It will start to get to him later.

I follow him, but at a distance, as he goes and kneels next to the tombstones, placing a hand on each. They're beautiful, white marble, not yet chipped and worn by time. Clusters of roses sit in front of them, but each also sports a crocus. Those are the ones that Dick put down. "These people don't know my parents," he'd explained. "My parents aren't really into roses."

I notice that he still refers to his parents in the present tense.

He sits there, rubbing the headstones, as time drags on. I finally decide to approach. "Are you all right?"

"I miss them," he mumbles. "Everyone keeps saying they're sorry. I don't want '_sorry'_, I want them back." He looks up at me. "How do you do it?"

I think for a moment before I squat down next to him. "I think about what I have now. I think about how my parents wouldn't want me to spend the rest of my life miserable because I couldn't let go of them. I don't forget them—" I look down the row of gravestones, to where I can see the giant marble monument dedicated to Thomas and Martha Wayne. "—but I accept things the way they are."

"I'll be able to do that. For them. They would have wanted it." His fists tighten on the stone. "But I can't yet. I hope that the Batman is getting somewhere." And then I can tell that he's stopped talking to me. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't do anything…"

I get up and walk back to where Alfred is waiting with the car. "Alfred?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Do you think that you could take Dick down into the city tonight, to eat with Jim, Barbara, and Jackson?"

"Planning a little excursion, are we, sir?"

"Yes."

"Then you have nothing to worry about. It's nearly dark already. I'll take him straight from here."

"Thanks, Alfred. It should probably also help cheer him up."

Come five, Dick and Alfred are out of the way and I'm dressed, in the Batmobile, humming into town.

The circus hasn't left yet, but they've stopped their performances. The booths, while not disassembled, are empty and forlorn. Tickets, wrappers, and other soggy bits of debris litter the ground. The grounds are completely deserted.

I enter the main tent to see that the police have done what I asked and left the evidence in place. The broken wires are still coiled on the ground where Gordon left them. Crossing over to them, I can see what the police examiners meant when they said that the breakage was only due to wear. The break happened towards the top of the wire, where it connected to the fastener that would attach it to the overhead beam. There aren't any patches of shiny metal or rough spots that would indicate it had been sawed through, or melted areas meaning that it was heated. It was purely natural.

But Dick insisted that his father had checked the wires, and that they were new. So, if this was a murder, then it meant that the wires had been replaced before showtime. This is a bad lead. The perpetrators could have taken the wires with them, and then where would I be? I re-check the wire to see if there's anything else about it… something I can track.

I'd gotten a good look at a normal wire last night, when circus attendants had come in to put new ones in. This wire looks identical to the kind Haly's uses.

Inspecting the middle of the cord, I notice a difference in feel. It's almost as if the wire is…thinner. I realize that it means it's been stretched. This wire was taken and distressed in a short amount of time by attaching a heavy object to it.

I finally make my way to the end, and I inspect the bar on which the performers were supposed to swing. I test it with the supplies I brought, but I can only find two sets of fingerprints, which I know belong to the Graysons. I still swipe it, so I can analyze any other residue that I find at the Batcave.

Dropping the wire back to the ground, I test the other one, getting the same results, before starting the climb up into the rafters.

In the old days, the tent was simple—cloth, a couple of poles. Now, with all the more modern additions, it's a mess of framing and supports. It takes a long time for me to wind my way through the supports to find the larger cords that the wires were attached to. The new wires shine faintly in the light from my belt. I reach to touch the main supporting cord when an oily smear comes off on my glove. On closer inspection, I find that it's a grease that must be used to allow the wires to pivot. It's a little darker than the wire, and has rubbed off in many places around the wire fastener. Too much, in fact. Anyone who knew how to change a trapeze wire wouldn't have done such a terrible job. I pull out my UV light to confirm it and see that the glowing grease is liberally smeared and smudged.

I'm making my way back down when I pause at the platform where Dick had been standing. A true "birds-eye" view. And again, I feel myself slipping into a well of sentimentality. It must have been so shocking—so sudden. To be, at one moment, preparing to fly high, and the next watching the people you love most plunging to their deaths.

On a whim, I redraw my UV light and shine it down over the audience chairs. And I see what I'm looking for. A bright blue smudge glowing like a beacon in the stands.

Looks like someone forgot to wash their hands.

Now that I know where they were sitting, I'm willing to bet that I'll be able to find out who they are. Someone in that crowd will be able to tell me. Hell, even Dick might be able to—

The structure rocks, and by instinct I leap off and glide to the ground. Whipping around, I scan the structure's base for any signs of life. I really didn't have to, because at that moment the spotlights blare on.

"Congratulations, Batman!" I'm shielding my eyes against the light, but I can tell it's a male voice, albeit a rather young and high one. However, it's followed immediately by a female voice.

"You have succeeded in deducing the Graysons' killers!"

The boy chimes back in, his sarcasm contrasting with the sound of the girl's excitement. "Bravo."

"We hate to put a damper on things, but…"

Both together. "We've been here the whole time!"

Eyes finally adjusted, I look up to see two people, each dangling from their knees from the trapezes. They hadn't been there a moment before, so whoever they are, they're fast. I'd peg them as circus performers, but they're not wearing the circus colors. Their uniforms are checkered black, the boy's fluorescent green and the girl's too pink to look at. And unlike the circus acrobats, they're both wearing masks—they girl sporting a pink face of comedy, the boy with a green face of tragedy. They're both oddly skinny, and don't look much larger than thirteen- or fourteen-year-olds, not exactly the types of people you'd find threatening, but I still start assessing the options that I have available. Since the tent is made of fabric, an escape, if necessary, shouldn't be too big of a problem. I don't know what their capable of yet, but I'd be able to handle them in a fight, providing I could catch them. The one thing that puts me on edge is the confidence they project.

"Birds," smirks the boy.

"Broken birds," giggles the girl.

"Pointless."

"Love."

"Hearts."

"Blood."

"Knives."

I have no idea what they're talking about, but can see that they're more than just young murderers—they're not the most sound of mind. They are eerily like Joker, but younger.

I decide that I don't have time for their word games. Or rather, I do, but I don't have the patience to sit through them.

"Who do you work for?" I thunder at them.

They stop twittering for a moment and look at each other. "Work for?"

Flipping up off their trapezes, they somersault through the air before landing in the middle of the reinstated net. After one bounce, they fly back out of the net and land on the hard-packed dirt in front of me. The girl bends backwards, then straightens up, walking on her hands towards me. "Why would we be working for anyone?"

The boy sits down, twisting himself into a pretzel. "Confining, really."

They're both similar enough in size and stature that I decide they must be twins. And their voices tell me that I'm right in thinking they're teenagers. I pull the poem out of my belt satchel. "Apparently you have 'masters' for whom you want to earn your 'crowns'." I hold the paper up. "Or doesn't this look familiar?"

"Oh dear," sighs the boy. "You dropped the grocery list, Becky."

"It appears so. Should I write a new one? What would you like?"

"Egg nog."

"Holidays."

"Do-what-you-please."

"Mischief."

"A nice fun murder?"

"I don't have time for games," I cut back in, taking out my Batarang and aiming it at Becky. "Tell me who you're working for."

"No time for games?" The girl looks offended. "Nicky, he doesn't have time for games!"

"No time to play?" asks Nicky. "But you really _must_ play."

"Because who are we?"

"We are—"

"The fabulous—"

"Witty—"

"Dazzling—"

"Moving—"

"Gotham Players!"

They both laugh, in a way that seems genuinely happy, but almost _too_ happy, the way that a group of exhausted friends might go into hysterics on a late night.

"Yes! So shall we put on a play—"

"—or shall we play a game?"

I look from one to the other. "And how do a couple of kids fit this into their schedule?"

"Oh, you wouldn't believe," says Becky. "And after what we had to pull last night—"

"What with killing the Graysons and all—"

"Ghastly—"

"Exhausting—"

"—barely got to bed on time!"

Homicide detectives like confessions. In the superhero world, a confession means that the enemy is about to kill you, and this is the second one I've gotten. Seeing as they're both small and unarmed, I can only guess that something else inside the tent is rigged. But until that thing blows, I have the most crucial time to spend. I'm still alive, and I have two people who have confessed to murder. So I will do what I'm supposed to do.

Bring in the suspects.

I fling my Batarang at Becky, and lunge over to Nicky, as he's still on the ground with his arms and legs twisted into intricate shapes. However, in a moment of slithering limbs he's on his feet and running across the dirt, vaulting into the bleachers. I immediately pursue, since I know that I can't let him get away, but I also look back towards Becky just in time to catch the Batarang that she's thrown back at me—apparently with her toes.

This is not something that I'm used to. My archenemies always stand and fight. The ones that run are the street criminals, who are slow enough to catch anyway. But these two people—children—are faster than me. They have the speed of youth and the circus. And one of them is about to get away.

I hurl a shock-bomb into his path and it explodes before he can divert, unleashing an electric current that brings out a scream and leaves him twitching on the ground, temporarily paralyzed. I turn back to search out Becky, who I expect to give up after the defeat of her twin, but I find an empty arena floor. She's climbed her way back into the circus equipment, and is swinging on the trapeze, giggling and looking down at me and her brother.

"Nicky's slow, Nicky bird," she titters. "Can the bat catch the Beck?" She brings her legs up and starts to swing by her knees. "Wheeeeee!"

I'm starting to wonder if these people are actually working for higher "masters" or if they're just insane.

I take out my other batarang, the one with the edge, and send it slicing through the trapeze wires. She doesn't even break her stride as she falls, continuing the same "Wheeeeeee!" The Batarang returns to me, and I decide that once she lands, I can cut the ropes supporting the net. It would be an easy way to catch and deliver the children to the Gotham PD.

That's when I see Becky toss the trapeze bar out towards me. I spring out of the way—whether or not she was trying to hit me or it was an explosive of some type, I don't want to find out. And it's a good thing I do. The bar explodes with extreme magnitude the moment it strikes the ground, throwing me into the bleachers towards which I'd already been running. Charred bits of dirt begin to rain down around me, but as I try to get up, more explosions begin to fire, and with each new blast, another portion of the central ring erupts into the air. I have no way to see what happened to Nicky, what happened to Becky, as the stands catch fire and I'm left to fight my way out of the growing inferno. My suit protects against most of the flames; my cowl could protect my ears from explosions. But I'm choking on smoke, eyes watering against the heat, stumbling up the collapsing structure to try and find a way out.

I can finally see the wall of the tent—I draw my knife to slash it open and get out. My fist is already in motion when some force strikes my hand from the side and sends the knife skittering across the wood. A grinding in my hand tells me that if I haven't broken it, I've at least dislocated something. Turning, I see both of them standing there, apparently immune to smoke and flames. Both of them are holding paintball guns.

I expect them to start a monologue—I _hope _that they do—but instead they begin to shoot the already weakening wooden structure, in a circle around my feet. I'm not sure what their guns are loaded with, but it's large, round, and blunt, easily punching holes that open into the darkness below. I know that I won't be able to get out in time, and that there is nothing left for my grappling hook to hook onto to save me, so I do the best that anyone can do in this situation. I fire my two hooks at both jesters, and as the stands collapse and I fall, I drag them down with me.

While they have clear sight and have been breathing clean oxygen, I am disoriented in the flame-lit space under the stands. When I land, I'm trying to roll, but I only end up crushing my shoulder. On the ground, trying to get up, I feel something hard and round smash into the back of my ribcage. I stagger around only to receive two more, in the chest and stomach. In that moment, where I'm burned, broken, and choking, I decide to end it. I don't care that they're children. They're psychopaths. And it's not like a little more fire is going to make much of a difference.

I rip the two emergency capsules off of my utility belt, click them on, and fling them away. The players are both half-risen a little distance away, tangled in a pile of cords, with guns aimed at me. They can't move fast enough.

Two deafening explosions later, I see them slump, motionless, but I realize that I'm on my knees too.

And it's about then that I register the fact that I'm splitting with pain, and I fade into blackness.

* * *

(Batman/related characters are property of DC comics)


	7. Chapter 7

Thanks again for the review, Callypse. I'm glad to hear you liked the Players; I wasn't sure what people would think.

* * *

Dick was trying desperately to hold back his tears.

When his parents had first fallen, he hadn't cared about hiding his tears. It had been too much—too sudden, too monumental, too incomprehensible. Once he'd arrived at the Wayne Manor, the initial grief was over, leaving only shock, and he'd been distracted on top of that, too distracted to cry. At the funeral, he'd simply been numb with disbelief. Now, rolling away in the car with Alfred, it had begun to settle in that his parents were going to be resting on that hilltop forever. He wished that he'd taken more time to say goodbye.

He was glad that Bruce Wayne wasn't with them—Bruce Wayne, who'd been four years younger than Dick when his parents died, and yet who could still talk about it so easily. How was Dick ever supposed to become like that?

"Why didn't Mr. Wayne want to come to the Lieutenant's house, Alfred?"

"He says that he's developing a head cold, Master Grayson, but it's my belief that the day's events have simply left him sentimental. It happens every once in a while; he'll go back to the manor and walk around, revisiting his parents' bedrooms and dusting off family heirlooms. Also, the Gordons're better friends to me than they are to him. Master Bruce never really became part of the family that we forged through Jackson."

Dick was looking forward to meeting Alfred's son.

It amazed him, as they drove through Gotham, the stark differences between the classes in the city. One area would be full of shining modern apartment stacks, with huge windows and marble bases, the next would be a series of boarded up windows, grimy shacks, and the homeless. Passing through the downtown area, spiked with skyscrapers, Dick realized that they were heading back towards the site of the circus. However, just as the edge of the grounds became visible, Alfred pulled off. Both sides of the street were lined with apartments. It surprised Dick how, after the rest of Gotham, the mossy brick and glowing golden windows felt like home to him.

"This way, Master Grayson."

Alfred took him inside and up two flights of stairs before stopping in front of a blue door and knocking.

There was silence for a few seconds before a raspy voice issued from inside. "_The Gordonsssss… are not at home…_"

Dick froze, but Alfred just said "Open the door, Barbara."

The door was immediately flung wide by a girl with huge brown eyes and a wide grin. "How could you possibly have known?"

Ignoring her, but in a way that somehow seemed practiced instead of impolite, Alfred motioned to Dick. "Barbara, this is Dick Grayson. Master Grayson, Barbara Gordon, daughter of the lieutenant."

Dick could tell by the flash of pain that crossed her face that she knew his story. She might have even been in the audience. But she nonetheless hitched the grin right back on her face and leaned out, clinging to the doorknob, to shake his hand. "Hiya, Dick. Come inside!"

She pulled back inside, and he saw her socked feet flash across the carpet out of sight. Alfred pushed the door open. "In you go, young sir."

Dick stepped inside to a small living room. It was incredibly homely, with springy brown carpet flowing into hallways on either side. The couches that were crammed into the central living space were covered with bright blankets, and the coffee table was crowded with books, movies, video games, and bowls of M&Ms.

As Alfred shut the door behind him, a woman entered from the room on her right. She looked tired, and thin, but smiled at him nonetheless as she hung up her checkered apron on a wall hook. "Go ahead and hang up your coat, Dick." After Dick had put away his coat and taken off his shoes, she moved forward and he was surprised that she pulled him straight into a hug. "It's very nice to meet you. Welcome to our family."

He turned red, but didn't pull away. Something inside of him had melted—something childish, that needed the embrace of a mother. He was touched by the kindness that she showed, so he hugged her back. "It's nice to meet you too, Mrs. Gordon."

After she stepped back, he saw that the police lieutenant had also entered the room, though without his jacket and tie, and with his sleeves rolled up. It was remarkable the difference that that made, turning him from officer to husband and father. "Hello, son." He shook Dick's hand, then gestured down the opposite hallway. "Barbara and Jackson should be right down there, if you want to get to know each other." He looked over at Alfred. "You going to say hi?"

Alfred looked uncomfortable. "I'll see him in a minute. Do you need any help in the kitchen?"

Alfred and Gordon moved back into the kitchen, and Dick took the narrow right-hand hall to the room at the end, from which he could voices issuing. He poked his head around the doorframe to see an even smaller room, that reminded him of a half-completed game of traffic jam. Two twin beds were shoved up against each wall, with just enough space at the foot of each for a desk to fit. One desk, that stretched from one wall to the other, for both occupants to use. And no chairs—he guessed that they just sat on the beds.

At that point, the uniformity ended abruptly, and Dick got the sense that the room was slightly DID. The left half was decked in purple, the right side covered in blue. The left was occupied with posters of gymnasts, tigers, break-dancers and samurai warriors; the right with cars, engine diagrams, and the periodic table of elements. The only recurring theme seemed to be the use of the color black and various sci-fi or fantasy images.

Barbara was sitting on the purple bed, upside down, with her head touching the floor and her feet sticking straight into the air. She looked over at Dick and waved, which attracted the attention of the other occupant. Dick had been expecting Alfred's son to be tall, pale, fair-haired, blue-eyed—in short, European. Instead, he was greeted by a boy who was quite clearly Asian. His hair stuck up like he'd just taken a nap. "Hi, Dick. I'm Jackson. Want to come in and close the door?"

Dick looked up and noticed the DANGER ROOM sign on the door, and grinned before closing it.

Barbara flipped her legs down off the bed, stood up, and sat on the desk, motioning to the bed. "Sit down. We're going to do _real_ introductions. I hate how adults just go: Name. Name. Shake hands. Be nice. Done. How are you supposed to get to know someone _that_ way?"

Dick sat nervously on the bed. He liked meeting new people, but it was usually at the circus, where he was comfortable, not in a foreign environment with a hyper teenage girl running the show.

"So—name, age, occupation, origin. Shoot." She looked excitedly at Dick. "You first."

Jackson cleared his throat. "_I'll _go first, Babs." He Dick a don't-get-too-overwhelmed look, before firing off, "Jackson Pennyworth, fourteen, junior engineer, Singapore. But moved to Britain. Then moved here. By the way, my mom is Chinese. That's why I look… you know…"

"Oh," said Dick. "Do you get that question a lot?"

"Yeah." Jackson looked over at Barbara. "Go."

She huffed at the disruption of her order, but said, "Barbara Gordon, thirteen, gymnast, Gotham. Dick?"

"Um, Richard Grayson, twelve, acrobat—the entire country. I think I was born in Colorado, but I'm not sure."

"Your real name is Richard?" giggled Barbara. "Weird. You don't look like a Richard. Or maybe kinda. But I wouldn't call you that. So I take it that in your free time you're usually acrobating?"

"Yeah."

"I sort of do too, since I do gymnastics, but we'll have to introduce you to the stuff that normal kids do. I draw and paint. Jackson designs websites and builds computers, though I wouldn't call that 'normal'. We both like to read and play video games. And Jackson makes one mean chili!"

Then she dropped from the desk and surveyed Dick closely, who backed up. Something about her bothered him—something that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Squinting at him, she said, "You _are_ staying here, right?"

"As far as I know, yes. Not that I don't like it here. I do."

"Good," she said, sitting happily back on top of the desk.

Dick finally started to realize what was bothering him. Even if her eyes weren't green, Barbara had bright red hair. She also had a very alive, spirited personality. It was impossible for Dick to not think immediately of Raya.

Suddenly, he thought, _Raya_. The circus wasn't gone yet. They were probably in their trailer, getting ready to move out. He didn't know when they would leave—only that they hadn't yet. And it was just down the street. Alfred would definitely try to stop him from going, but if he slipped out the window now, he'd never know. He looked up, nervously, at the door.

When he looked back, both Barbara and Jackson were staring at him. They looked at each other, before Barbara asked "What's wrong?"

"I—uh—" he thought that it would probably be rude when meeting new friends for the first time, to suddenly leave to go see older friends. But he had to ask. "It's just that I had this friend at the circus. Her name was Raya. I didn't really get to say good-bye to her, and I just realized that the circus is still here, but I don't know when it's going to leave. It's right down the road from here, but I wouldn't be able to let Alfred see. I was just wondering…"

"Wait right here." Before anyone could react, Barbara was out the door in a flash of red.

Jackson started to pull open the window. Once it was open, he poked his head out. "There's a fire escape right here, so you should be good as far as that goes, but there's this stuff blocking the end of the alley—" Jackson then looked back in. "Oh wait. Right. Acrobat. You should be fine. Go out here and go left and you'll be there."

Barbara ran back in with a pair of shoes and a jacket. "These are Jackson's. I took them from the closet so that Alfred wouldn't see yours missing. Here!" She tossed them at him.

Dick was overwhelmed as he started to pull the sneakers on. These people—he'd only met them a few minutes ago, and they were already helping him sneak out?

"You should have at least an hour until dinner," said Barbara.

"And if anyone comes knocking," said Jackson. "We'll cover for you."

He pulled on the jacket and was halfway out the window, perched on the ledge, when he looked back in. "Guys—I really don't know what to say. Except thank you."

"Then get going!" said Barbara.

Dick grinned, jumped down from the ledge, descended the fire escape, leapt over the garbage bins at the alleyway entrance, and shot through the deserted midway.

He tried not to look at the central tent as he passed by.

The next thing he knew, he was pounding on Raya's trailer door without the slightest bit of hesitation. "Raya!"

There was silence inside the trailer, and he was afraid that they weren't home. But where would they be? He was hurling his fist forward to knock again when the door flew open and he fell inside. Dazed and on the floor, he looked up into Raya's apologetic face.

The next thing he knew, she'd hauled him to his feet and was hugging him like a ferocious octopus. "I'm sorry, Dick."

Dick was stunned for a second, still a little out of it from his fall, but after a second he laughed and thumped her on the shoulder. "Why?"

After she'd brushed him off and they were both sitting on Raya's trailer bunk, Dick told her what Bruce Wayne's manor had been like. He tried to be as honest as he could, even talking about the police lieutenant and the children who were covering for him back at the apartment. He didn't know if Raya would be jealous, but he wanted to be as honest to her as possible.

Raya, however, seemed to have recovered. She listened and laughed. She asked questions. Once he was done talking, she added that the circus was planning on heading out the very next day. She was glad that he'd managed to make it back in time.

The one thing that he didn't talk about was the Batman.

When they ran out of topics to talk about, a short silence reigned. Raya swung her legs and looked at the ceiling. Dick finally looked at the clock and realized that he only had a little while before he had to be present for dinner. He had no idea how to say good-bye to her, so he kept it simple. "I'm going to have to start heading back, Raya."

She was silent for a minute longer before she looked back down and asked, "Why'd you give me my necklace?"

He was taken aback. "What?"

"Why did you take the time to make it? We're friends, I don't need gifts to know that."

Dick looked down to where the necklace, well cared for, glittered around her shirt neckline. "I thought you'd like it."

"And I do. Dick, remember back when we were eight, and we'd joke that we'd get married when we grew up?"

"Yeah."

"I was only half-joking."

Dick was looked up in surprise, but not shock—sad surprise, an I-wish-you'd-told-me sooner kind of surprise. He didn't even notice her ears reddening, because when he looked back, he was looking into her eyes. "So was I."

Raya gave a mournful half-smile. "We have great timing, don't we?"

Dick wanted to laugh, but he couldn't put any heart into it.

Raya continued. "You got so busy—I barely had any time to even talk to you anymore. I figured that once we were both older, I'd ask you out. Not that we could go very far 'out'. But I've still had my eye on you since I was about four."

Dick still didn't know how to respond.

Raya stood up and sighed. "You should get going, it's almost six. But keep in touch, okay? You know the map. You know where we'll be and when. And you have my mom's cell number. So write and call, or I'm going to be really angry when we wind back up in Gotham."

He smiled and stood up. "Yes, Mademoiselle Vestri. I don't think you have to worry."

They both hugged, and he added, "I'm going to miss you too much."

When they broke apart, she kissed him on the cheek. "Me too. Good luck, my Flying Grayson."

Too soon, he was out of her trailer, walking away, turning back to wave at her as she watched through the window. He only turned to face forwards once she disappeared behind the corner of a tent.

He was crossing the midway when he stopped and looked up at the tent. _The_ tent, the main one. He had been planning to ignore it, walk right by, force himself to keep going. But he thought he heard something. Something inside.

The tent was designed to be sound-proof, or as soundproof as a tent could be. It was also flame-retardant, tough as nails, and never faded. One of Haly's specials. But it bothered Dick. If he could hear anything, it mean that it had to be pretty loud.

And they never practiced on the night of departure.

Despite the fact that he was already running late, despite the fact that it was dark, despite the fact that he was heading towards the place where his parents died, he ran to the tent flap. He knew that something was wrong the minute that he started to feel heat on his face. After pulling the flap open, he blinked and coughed, but didn't pull back. He was too busy taking in the scene—he could barely believe his eyes.

The entire interior of the tent was ablaze. The stands that rose on either side of him were burning; the hard-packed dirt of the center of the ring was blackened and scattered. He covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve. What had caused this? What had happened?

A piece of flaming debris fell dangerously close to him, and he was about to leave when he heard crashing a little ways away and spun to see something moving underneath the stands. Three things. All three on the ground. Two who were aiming weapons…shooting them, at a third. At the last moment, the third staggered upright and flung out his hand. At that moment, that infinite moment, Dick recognized him.

"Batman!"

Two blindingly bright explosions later, the stands started to creak and groan above his head. Where was the Batman? Was he all right? Dick was torn. He had to get out—he wasn't flameproof. But what about the Batman? He was going to be trapped.

As he heard the wood above start to splinter, he finally made a split second decision and leapt into the supports beneath the stand.

Ducking around beams and dodging fiery comets, Dick made his way painstakingly to the scene of action. All three of the people were unconscious, but Dick was surprised to see that Batman's two adversaries appeared to be… children. Maybe two or three years older than him. One still had a grip on their paintball gun. Dick had no idea if they merited saving, but he got to work on Batman first. He dragged Batman through burning piles of rubble and to the edge of the tent, barely able to move him at all, but managing after a few tries. He knelt down and cut the cords securing the tent to the ground and wriggled under, pausing to spew carbon monoxide from his lungs and gulp down clean air. Then, he reached back in and tugged Batman's still form out, fumbling at Batman's belt to look for any type of device that he could use to signal the police, or an ambulance. Because he _needed_ an ambulance, badly.

Unable to find one, Dick pulled out the phone that he was now privileged to own—it had belonged to his father—and dialed 911. He had never reported an emergency before, and barely even knew how to describe the situation that he was facing. A burning tent, wounded Batman, and two child hostiles with paintball guns. He did the best he could.

Taking several deep breaths, Dick shimmied back into the tent, and saw that the stands had partially collapsed, on top of the two adversaries. Since they were Batman's enemies, he didn't really care—but they were still more valuable alive than dead. Dick nimbly leapt back over to where they'd been and kicked some of the rubble off them. He was having a hard time finding any part to kick that wasn't on fire.

He had almost cleared it when he realized that they were gone.

He didn't understand how they could have moved, or been moved so quickly, but there was no sign of them. Not even a stray paintball. Dick started to feel lightheaded again and ran back to the hole at the base of the tent. Once he was out, he sucked in a lungful of clean air and looked up.

Batman was gone too.

He sat there, aggravated. Then he realized that he was late for dinner and scrambled to his feet. He began to hear cop sirens heading towards him, and wondered if they'd think he'd prank called. But then again, it wouldn't surprise him if this happened a lot.

He sped back through the tents and into the alleyway underneath the Gordons' apartment, before sprinting up the fire escape, taking the steps three at a time. The moment he crept over to the window and peered in, it shot open and Barbara and Jackson were both there, looking panicked.

"Oh, thank God!" said Barbara, and with one hand yanked him inside. "Are you all right?"

Dick righted himself and panted out, "Yeah—yeah, sorry I'm late, it's just that—stuff happened."

Jackson looked like he was going to close the window, but left it open. "Stuff like a fire? And Batman?"

Dick started pulling off his shoes. "How did you know?"

Barbara yanked off his coat. "Did you forget that my dad works with the police? The minute the 911 call came in, he was out the door. You called, didn't you?" She stuffed the coat and shoes under the bed. "Wow. You still smell like smoke. And I'll have to hide those things so that mom doesn't ask why they're scorched."

"Oh, yeah," said Dick, sheepishly. "Sorry about that."

They all looked at each other before they burst out laughing. Barbara threw herself down on her bed. "We have an extra half-hour now that Dad's out. Tell us what happened!"

After Dick had explained had everything, Jackson closed the window (explaining that Dick no longer smelled like he'd been in a fire). "Huh. It's weird. I mean, I know that it's weird, but I thought that that might have had something to do with why Alfred left."

Dick looked at him sharply. "Alfred left?"

"Yeah, he said something about forgetting to run an errand for Mr. Wayne, but it seemed like a bit of an odd time. He told us to eat without him, and when he came and asked where you were, we said that you were under the bed."

Errand? Huh. The three of them were all pondering the events when there was a knock on the door and the commissioner poked his head back in. "Nice to see you out from under the bed, Dick. Decided that you needed fresh air?"

"Yeah."

Jackson pushed himself up. "What happened, Jim?"

Dick thought it was funny for him to call him "Jim", but then again, he _was_ living in his house.

"Massive fire in the tent at Haly's circus. We still don't know what caused it, but the caller to 911 said that it involved Batman and two hostiles. That honestly wouldn't surprise me. Anyway, we got the fire department there, and we couldn't find whoever Batman was fighting. But we've decided to offer the circus police protection until it leaves."

"Good," Dick said. "Apparently they need it."

The commissioner's face looked pained for a second, and he looked like he was going to say something to Dick, but instead addressed them all. "You kids ready to eat now?"

The dinner was homely. Mrs. Gordon had baked rolls and made mashed potatoes; the commissioner had made meatloaf. Dick had expected the meal to feel awkward and uncomfortable, but as time passed, conversation was had, laughter was exchanged, and food was consumed, their kindness embraced him. Later as he played video games for the first time, with Jackson and Barbara, he started to feel like he'd found his new home.

At nine o'clock, there was a knock on the door, and Jackson got up to check who it was (he'd lost the last round of gaming and was sitting this one out to collect his thoughts). Then he pulled a mock sad face and said, "Bad news, Dick."

Losing his concentration and looking up, Dick asked "Who is it?"

"Alfred."

It took Dick a second to remember that Jackson was Alfred's son, and realize he was calling his dad by his real name. He watched as Jackson pulled the door open and Alfred first looked in at them by the TV and then looked up at his son. Dick tried to read the expression crossing Alfred's face, to try and understand what was going on between him and Jackson, but his features were incredibly pleasant and normal.

"Hello, son."

"Hey, Alfred."

"Mind if I take Master Grayson home?"

Jackson grinned and looked over at him. "Yes. And he might too."

Barbara paused the game and sprang to her feet. "Please, Alfred! Just ten more minutes! Well, a half-hour. Just a half-hour, please?"

"Barbara," said commissioner Gordon, entering from the kitchen with a beer. "When Alfred says that he has to go, he has to go. But feel free to come back any time, Dick."

Dick wordlessly got to his feet and started putting on his shoes and coat. After the evening that he'd had, the last thing he wanted to do was to return to Wayne Manor, to the empty halls, and Bruce Wayne's loveless presence. Compared to the Gordons' motherly household, the manor was a queen—beautiful, regal, cold, and just out of reach.

Barbara was bouncing up and down on the couch. "Come back for Thanksgiving! Dad's making turkey and I'm going to make cranberry relish with oranges and you-can-help-Jackson-make-the-green-bean-casserole-with-onions-but-he-likes-to-relate-it-to-lines-and-vectors-and-other-weird-mathy—"

Commissioner Gordon stopped her motion by placing one hand firmly on her head. "Calm down, Babs. But she's right. That'd be a great time for you to drop by."

Dick had zipped up his coat and was hovering hesitantly by the open door. "I wouldn't miss it for the world." Then he looked back at Alfred waiting in the doorframe. "Bye, guys."

"See ya, Dick. And watch out for Batman!"

He grinned at her, but as he turned away, his expression became thoughtful. "You know, I think I will."

* * *

(Batman and related characters are property of DC comics)


	8. Chapter 8

Thanks for your continuing support, Callypse. :)

* * *

As they pulled back up at the manor, Dick stared resignedly at the forlorn windows of the mansion, less than half of them lit. It was a beautiful house, but it was cold and empty, like a bare hearth where a flame should be flickering. As they walked up the steps, he remembered a question that he'd wanted to ask Alfred. "What was the errand that you had to run for Mr. Wayne?"

"Ah," said Alfred uncomfortably. "Bank business. He actually does quite a lot of that himself, but this was my charge, and well… let's just say that I got it done just in the nick of time, thank the Lord."

"Oh." They entered the silent atrium. "Where is he now?"

"Sleeping. As you should be."

"Alfred, it's only nine."

"And you're only twelve." But Alfred was smiling. "Is there anything that you require?"

"Um…no, not really, Alfred."

"Then I must go. There are other things I must see to… a butler's work is never done." Alfred started to move away when Dick decided to take a shot in the dark.

"What kind of work are you doing? Do you want any help?"

Alfred looked back, and seeming to stumble as he tried to get his words out of his mouth. But he eventually straightened out his face and laughed, albeit a tad nervously. "Oh, just little bits of cleaning. And really, there's no need, Master Grayson."

"But I want to help."

"Oh, no sir. You really should be in bed. And besides, if you did all the cleaning, I'd be out of a job. Good night, sir." It was not rude at all—Alfred said it with the utmost politeness. But there could be no doubt that he was avoiding him. Dick watched as Alfred strode off, rather quickly, in the direction of the kitchens.

And without really thinking, Dick decided to follow him.

He didn't want to think that he'd find anything, because he didn't want to be disappointed if he didn't. But based on how Wayne and Alfred acted, he knew that they were both somehow connected, very closely, to the Batman. It would be very easy for the Wayne family to somehow help him out—fund, supply, etc. But what Dick really believed—even if he tried not to think about it, since it seemed…weird—was that Bruce Wayne _was_ Batman.

Bruce Wayne managed to get in contact with him, and fast. Alfred left the house when the 911 call involving the Batman came in. Wayne always disappeared when it started to get late. And when did the Bat show himself?

At night.

Halfway down the first floor hall, he pulled off his shoes and hid them in an alcove. After that, he was able to pad along swiftly, but silently. He paused by the kitchen doorway to hear Alfred moving inside. Then he heard a muted noise like an automated door opening. Sticking his head around the doorframe, Dick was greeted with… an empty room. With something that may have been a flash of movement on the floor by the stove. He crept inside and flattened himself on the ground to look at the tile. There didn't seem to be any imperfections, and it didn't sound hollow.

So, Dick thought, looking around. Buttons. Look for activation buttons, anything that would open a door. His eyes settled on the stove dials. He started turning them on, moving them into different positions relative to each other, to no effect. Turning off the stove, he tried buttons on the blender, dishwasher, and the microwave. Then his eyes settled below the microwave keypad, on the simple spring mechanism button that you pushed in order to pop the door.

It couldn't be that simple.

He hit it and heard a latch release underneath his feet. A two-foot by two-foot square of tile popped up an inch above the rest, and Dick immediately seized it and shoved it aside. A round tunnel with a ladder attached to the side led straight down into darkness.

He grabbed the rungs and descended. What he saw when he dismounted the ladder and turned around would change his life.

The cavern was monumentally huge. The ladder had let off somewhere near the top—below him he could see models of the Batmobile parked, jets prepped, various water craft floating in channels that cut through the cave's stone wall. Next to the vehicle-fest was a jumble of computer consoles with a chair at the center, and a set of huge screens attached to the cavern wall. He could also see a work station scattered with various welding tools not too far away from what appeared to be the newest incarnation of the Batmobile.

The next level up, the one below him, looked as though it had been set up to mimic a hospital room. That's where Alfred was standing, blood drained from his face, looking up at Dick. But the boy was more concerned with the burned, broken human form that Alfred was standing over. Of Batman.

Of Bruce Wayne.

* * *

It's been a couple of hours since I woke up in the Batcave, with Alfred hovering over me, looking panicked. Broken bones, he'd informed me. Lots of them. A couple of burns. Near suffocation.

I'm infuriated that a couple of children were able to do so much damage. I'd avoided using those explosives because they could result in a death—and since it was my first time fighting those two, I didn't know what to expect. But I can't just sit and make excuses; I have to prepare for the next encounter.

After, of course, I talk to Dick. Alfred just came down to check up on me—needlessly—when I see Dick drop from the ladder behind him and start to look around in both awe and shock. When he finally notices me and Alfred notices him, there's a moment of long, deafening silence.

I decide to end it. "Hello, Dick. Come down. Forget to lock the door, Alfred?"

Alfred stutters for a few seconds before saying, "I believe I did."

"It's fine. We have more important things to discuss." I beckon to Dick, who's at the bottom of the ladder. "Come here. I've got a lot of important things to tell you."

"If one of them is the fact that you're Batman," he says, "I think I've figured that out."

I smile humorlessly. "Yeah, you probably have. First and foremost, I want to thank you for pulling me out of there."

He stops, looking confused. "How did you—"

"I listened to the 911 call, Dick. I could recognize your voice. And you've got a burn mark on the bottom of your pants."

He looks down at his pants for a second before snapping his head back up to look at me again. "But what happened to the jesters?"

"Apparently they like to call themselves the 'Players'. And I don't know. I take it they were gone when you got there?"

Dick recounts everything that he saw, and I sit up to use the computer screen near the bed, despite the fact that I can feel the bones grinding in my chest. "They must have had outside help. There are plenty of alleys, but my guess is they had to use a car to get two unconscious people out. I'll see if the cops saw anything—"

"No need, sir," says Alfred. "I believe you're looking for a grey pickup truck, license number 339OR8F. It passed me on my way to the grounds."

I type in 339OR8F and find it registered to Clarence Reed. I search for Clarence Reed and find that he's been dead for quite some time. His old house had been torn down to make room for a warehouse by the water's edge.

"I need to go and look for—" I grunt with pain as I try to sit up, but I force myself to anyway. "—for the truck. I'll check the warehouse first."

"Sir," Alfred interjects sternly, "while I understand your hatred of waiting, I must _insist_ that you _rest_. There is only so much that the body can do. If you push yourself too hard now, you'll be of no use to us later."

"I know my limits, Alfred, and I haven't reached them yet."

"I'm well aware of what you _believe_—"

"Alfred, how about I rest for one day? By then, the osteoprogenitor regenerator will have done its work and I'll be good to go."

Alfred gives me a long look, before saying, "All right, but you stay in that bed until then."

"I will. You should get some sleep."

He sighs through his nose. "Good night then, Master Bruce, Master Grayson."

I watch as he takes the lift back into the house, and it's only then that I slide out of bed and gingerly test my ribs. The OR is designed to quicken the healing pace of bones, so I should be in fighting condition within two hours. But I won't wait any longer.

I limp over to the table nearby and pick up my batsuit, ripped and burned from last night's encounter. Still, most of the technology from my utility belt seems to be unscathed. I'm sorting the gear into piles—working, damaged, and broken—when I remember that Dick's still down here.

"You should probably be getting some sleep too, kid. Unless there's anything else you need to tell me?" I weigh a partially melted batarang in my hand, before flicking it at a board nearby and finding that it still handles nicely.

"I'm going to come with you."

"No, you're not." I pull the batarang out of the board and toss it into the 'damaged' pile. I expected Dick to want to come with me, and I wasn't going to waste any time being polite about my refusal.

"You think I don't know what they're capable of? They killed my _parents_. Damn it, look what they did to _you._ I know the risk and I'm willing to take it, and if anything happens to me, I'll take full responsibility."

"I don't doubt it."

"So what's the problem?"

"Everything's connected, kid. You say that you don't care if anything happens to you. But I do. I protect people. And if you're in danger, I will protect you, even if it jeopardizes what we're trying to accomplish."

He looks irritated. "Well, that's your problem. I don't want your protection. I just want to bring these people down. You worry about yourself, just let me come."

"I can't."

"It's _my_ life, can't I decide for myself—"

I turn on him. "_Think_, kid! You're all that's left of your family. What do you think your parents would have wanted? For you to risk getting yourself killed in some insane quest for vengeance?"

He looks surprised. Then, softly, he says, "Mr. Wayne, are you talking to me, or to yourself?"

I run my fingers through my hair and turn away, walking a few steps back towards the infirmary area. It's then that I notice the photo that Alfred must have put on the table next to the bed. It was taken on my sixth birthday, of me sitting in front of my glowing cake while my parents stood proudly behind me. I quickly knock the picture face down, leaning on the table and exhaling deeply. This is why I hate emotions.

"No. And that's final." I don't look back as I hear him ascending the ladder back into the house.

Crossing over to one of the computers, I put a lockdown on the entire house so that he can't try to follow me. After all of my gear is sorted and mended to the best of my ability, I start stretching carefully. At the end of the two hours, I gingerly test my ribs to find them sound. Only a temporary solution, but good enough. Nodding with satisfaction, I start pulling on my gloves.

I've got a score to settle. And this time, we're playing by my rules.

* * *

(Batman and related characters are property of DC comics)


	9. Chapter 9

Hi.

I'm sorry if you've been patiently waiting for more of this story. I've got a lot going on right now. Given that I'm writing three stories at once, I'm not sure when I'll be able to put more of this out. It's going to be divided into volumes. I'll finish putting up volume 1, but honestly, it might be months before I can go past that. I'm going to finish posting this volume before next week (finals week) starts as my parting gift to you, but it might be static for a while after that.

So anyway, if you're interested in reading more when it finally comes out, give the story a follow, or keep checking back. And as always, reviews are appreciated!

Thanks for coming this far.

* * *

Nicky twirled his mask around on one finger, heedless of the fifty foot drop to the warehouse floor below him. Maybe sitting in the rafters wasn't the most comfortable—but he still couldn't wait to see if the Batman would fall into yet _another_ trap. Nicky eyed the explosives lining the doors and windows—every possible entrance to the warehouse was blocked, and none were visible from the outside. All of the circumstances promised a grand fire show.

But he was bored out of his skull.

"Becky," he complained. "What if he doesn't turn up until tomorrow?"

She smirked as she turned her mask inside out, then inside out again, each time pushing the material through the smiling mouth, making it appear as though it were eating itself. "Then we wait until tomorrow. Nicky, Nicky, lighten up!" She snatched his mask and turned it upside down. "Turn that frown into a smile!"

He scowled as he grabbed it back. "What if he doesn't come here first? What if he still thinks we were working for other people? As funny as it was to try and fool him, I don't want to be _waiting_ here while he chases shadows."

Becky put on her mask. "This is why I'm wearing the happy face, Nicky bird. And he's got no lead, genius. He'll still have to catch _us_ first!" She giggled. "He's funny. Doesn't even know why he's fighting people, just does. Hasn't even listened to our side of the story!"

A ghost of a smile crossed Nicky's face. "True…he might understand us if he knew that the Graysons wouldn't respond to the fan letter we sent in…"

"Of _course_ he would—" Becky smirked. "We were _so_ very upset, after all."

Nicky's smile widened. "And why shouldn't we tell them how we felt?"

They both cracked up.

It was then that they both felt something sharp pinch the bases of their necks, and before they could even look down, they had both fallen from their perches, into blackness.

* * *

I watch them both fall from the rafters and toss the dart gun to one side. It won't be of any use if it comes to close combat. The sedative appears to have worked, but I don't want to take any chances. I ready a Batarang as I carefully make my way forward, toward the pile of empty cardboard boxes at the center of the floor, now crushed.

And yet I'm still not prepared for both of them to come flying out of the wreckage, apparently unaffected by the sleeping agent.

I toss the boy over my head as he charges, and try the same with the girl only to have her hold onto my arm and swing around to kick me in the back. I stumble forward, before wheeling around to face the both of them. They're advancing, both looking for their entrance. This time, they're not running.

I have to duck the knife that the boy throws at me before entering combat with the girl. I don't understand how they're so strong, so well trained. By herself, she keeps me busy, dodging, ducking, and weaving around my attacks with her agility and sneaking in blows to slowly wear me down. The boy joins in, and it becomes a sick game of whack-a-mole as I try to keep track of both of them. I can't even pull anything off my belt—I'm a tad busy.

It's his pride that's his downfall.

I can see the boy—Nicky—getting overconfident. He can see my difficulty holding myself against them, but mistakenly views it as exhaustion. I'm nowhere near exhaustion.

As he tries to enter with a roundhouse swing—powerful, but slow—I send my foot into his chest. I can tell by the resounding crack, the whoosh of air exiting his lungs, and his gasp of pain followed by his eyes rolling up into his head, that he's finally down.

But when I spin back around to face Becky, she's not there.

I'm starting to realize that between the two, she's the one that I have to keep an eye on.

I sense movement off to the side and I throw a flash bomb in that general direction, earning a small shriek from the girl as she topples from the top of the pile of crates, partially stunned. But before I can move towards her, she hurls her knife—not at me, but at one of the doors—before throwing herself behind what cover she can find. With nowhere to go, I simply drop to the floor and cover myself with my cape as the explosions start to go off.

I'm lucky I do. The chunk of metal shrapnel that crashes into my side would have been enough to pierce my suit, and probably a few vital organs with it. The tough material reduces the impact, albeit only slightly. It still hits me with the force of a raging bull, shoving me over onto my back before pinning me in place. What is it, even? The door? I'm trying to lift it with my free arm when an unwelcome sight enters my vision.

The girl has also survived the blast, but she, unlike me, was not hit with anything. Her mask sports nicks, and wood splinters adorn her hair, but she's smiling down at me, smudged visage illuminated by the roaring flames.

"Killing you wasn't even part of the plan," she says underneath her mask's ever present grin, staggering as a stray bomb goes off. "But you shouldn't have meddled with our private squabbles." She kneels down next to me, but too far for me to reach. "Do give the Grayson's my regards, won't you?"

In a last-ditch effort, I raise my right fist and shoot the blades out of the gauntlet. One hits her shoulder, two her ribs, and one her face, and she recoils with a cry. But as she rips them out, I realize just how insane she is. She's hardly fazed. I can see blood beginning to spill out of the crack in her mask, but she only gives it a casual wipe, smearing blood across her mask and into her white-blonde hair. Though her façade smiles, I hear her snarl as she draws a second knife.

"Goodbye, Batman."

I'm trying to rip through the tangled mess that is my cape so that I can reach my belt, but the cloth is nearly impossible to break with bare hands. Just as she raises her knife and I finally force the cloak aside, something hurtles in from the side of my vision and knocks Becky to the ground.

She shrieks as the pair tumble over the ground before coming to a stop just feet away from a flaming pile of debris. The newcomer wrests her knife away and flips backwards out of her reach with incredible skill. It's only as Becky also climbs to her feet, spitting out blood, and the two survey each other with a watchful eye, that I recognize the colors that the stranger is wearing. The red, yellow, and green of the circus. It's Dick.

If I hadn't expected him to try and come after me, and if I didn't know the circus colors, I might not recognize him. Part of his face is hidden underneath a black mask that fits over the bridge of his nose.

Becky's snarl turns back into a smirk. "Well, well, if it isn't Grayson Jr. Come to join mummy and daddy, little boy? Miss them?"

The boy laughs. "Dick Grayson isn't the only boy in the circus. You should know better than to mess with my people at Haly's. I'm not Dick Grayson, but he's a friend. And since you don't know who I am—" with blinding speed he whirls and kicks her into the flaming pile of wreckage. "—call me Robin."

His voice seems different, but a voice is easy to change. The thing that surprises me is his fighting proficiency. I didn't know that Dick could fight…

Looking again, I realize how well Dick thought this out. A slight change in voice, even if barely perceptible. Showing fighting skills previously hidden. For anyone who'd only seen him once, Robin would seem too tall, too old, too assured of himself, nothing like the mess of a boy who'd been grieving over his parents at the circus. To a stranger, Robin could be anyone.

While Becky gets back up and attacks him—she can't seem to understand the meaning of "down"—I'm working to rip off one of the sedative darts attached to my belt. My guess is that in order to resist the first one, both twins had been on something—taken in some sort of adrenaline to combat the dart. However, her bloodstream should be neutralized now. All I need is a clear shot.

"Robin" is matching Becky stride for stride. He has youth, speed and agility to match hers. But she has expertise. She's wearing him down. Her chance comes when she finally manages sees a break in his technique and vaults over his head, exiting his range of attack. She kicks him in the back, causing him to stumble forward, but before she can make another move I flick the sleeper dart with precision at her neck.

In her eyes I can finally see her defeat. She looks down at the needling sensation and rips the dart out, throwing it to the ground with vindictive fury. "You—" she tries to spit something at me, some unflattering phrase, but it ends in an unintelligible gurgle as she sinks to her knees and falls forward onto the sooty ground.

The boy's chest is heaving, as he looks from me to Becky's still body, to Nicky's prone form a good distance away. And then, as he picks Becky's knife off the ground and begins to move towards her, I understand what he's done. The act as Robin was to keep the twins, or any accidental onlooker, from recognizing him. He'd need to protect his identity for what he's about to do. I still don't know how he got out of the house, but the one thing I'm sure of is that he's not here to assist me. He's here for one purpose, and that purpose is not justice. It's revenge.

"Dick, _no."_

Now, lacking his previous adrenaline, I can see that he isn't as calm and assured as he'd made himself seem before. His breathing is ragged. His hands are trembling, but his grip on the knife doesn't falter.

"This is personal, Mr. Wayne. Let me make my own decisions."

As I heave, I finally feel the metal impeding me start to move.

"I'll let you make your own decision, but you have to know what you're doing. Killing seems so easy to the young, to the naïve, but you're doing something much more than bringing down a knife and removing an enemy. You are ending a life—ending a heart, ending a soul. Do you know who these children are? Do you care who they were before they became killers? Do you know how they were driven to insanity?"

He kneels down next to her, knife raised, but his hand starts to shake even more violently, and he freezes there. "I—I don't care. I shouldn't. They—both of them, they killed them, they killed my—my—they deserve it—"

"—and if you kill her now, then what will you do when you discover she has a mother, or a grandmother, or a lover, or someone who still believes that, beyond her mental condition, the sane girl that they once knew can come back?"

Half of Becky's mask was destroyed during the fight, making it possible to see her youthful face, the blood tracing her hairline, her expression devoid of any smirk or smile. Calm. Just like any other child. Tears begin to fall from Dick's hateful eyes, dripping down his contorted features.

"If we killed every murderer responsible for the death of someone we loved—there would be no one left on this earth. Dick, don't do something that you'll regret. Because if you do—it will haunt you forever."

The sound that rises from Dick's throat is pure grief and fury, the sound of a tortured soul who has lost sight of what is right and what is wrong. He slams the knife into the floorboards barely and inch away from the unconscious girl's face, screaming. "I _HATE_ YOU!" He hits her across the face, causing the broken edge of her mask to dig into her forehead. "I WAS _HAPPY,_ GODDAMMIT! I HAD A FAMILY! I HAD A _LIFE_! AND YOU TOOK THAT AWAY FROM ME FOR SOME STUPID—" He hits her again. "—POINTLESS—" Thud. "—REASON THAT ONLY YOU UNDERSTAND! Because _you_ had to be crazy! You had to—to—" He tries to hit her again, but it's weak and floppy and goes nowhere. "I—I just—I hate both of you so much."

He doesn't notice that I've finally freed myself, and as I stand behind him, I'm not sure what to do. He's kneeling by Becky's unconscious body, sobbing uncontrollably; frustrated, angry tears. I finally walk over to Nicky, injecting him with a sleeper dart, before dragging him over to Becky and handcuffing them together. After that, there's nothing I can do but activate my police alert beacon and pull Dick to his feet. I'm surprised when he turns around and buries his face in my uniform.

I pat his back awkwardly until I begin to hear police sirens echoing outside of the burning walls. Then I put my cape around Dick's shoulders and guide his quaking form into the shadows.

* * *

"Mr. Wayne, don't you think—"

"Bruce. Just call me Bruce, Dick."

"Okay, Bruce."

We'd returned from the warehouse a couple of hours ago. Now, Dick is sitting in his bed, eating a bowl of soup, as I sit next to him. Despite the hot soup, he's still shivering.

"It's just that don't you think that others will view it as—I don't know—weak? The fact that you're not willing to kill anyone?"

"That depends on who it is. Some people will think it's weak. Others will think it's merciful, or honorable. I just think of it as being necessary. How do you keep order by sinking to the level of the enemy?"

He nods and sips his soup for a second, then turns back to me with a serious expression. "So what's our next move? We have to find out who they were working for, and it said in the poem—"

"Dick, they weren't working for anyone. It was a bluff."

"What?"

"How much did you hear of their conversation before I attacked?"

"Just about—my parents not responding to their letter." I can tell that he's trying hard not to start grinding his teeth.

"Just before that, they were talking about something else. And they mentioned that they weren't working for other people—that was just a false detail that they included to amuse themselves."

He plays with his spoon, and silence drags for a few minutes before he finally speaks again. "So they really did die for no reason at all."

"People don't die for a _reason_, Dick. Not in Gotham. My parents were killed because a robber took a liking to my mom's pearl necklace. We can't look at their deaths. So we look at their lives instead."

I'm getting up to leave when he stops me by speaking again. "You know, I think that you could get a lot more done if I helped you."

I close my eyes. I'd been afraid of this. Not of him asking, but what my answer would be.

He continues behind me. "Back in that warehouse, if I'd been there, we could have finished the fight a lot faster. I'm smaller than you, and lighter. I can go places you can't. And I was in the circus, you know. I'm strong and fast and agile, I can look after myself—and I can fight too, Bruce—"

"About your fighting style. You keep your guard too far down, go too offensive. Once you've trained up a bit, that's acceptable, but for now it's just a hazard."

He seems a bit put out. "Oh. Yeah, I guess I just—" Then he perks up. "Wait, so that means you'll have me?"

"I can't seem to stop you, can I? Though I'm willing to bet that it didn't take much for you to get out—Alfred unlocked the door for you, didn't he?"

"_He_ thought it was a good idea."

I shake my head. "We'll also need to get you a different uniform. No offense, but red, green, and yellow is a little too bright and noticeable for what I do."

He's grinning like crazy. "As long as I'm there!"

"Oh, and by the way… why 'Robin'?"

He flushes a little. "My mom had a nickname for me—'her little spring robin'. It was because I was born on the first day of spring, and because I could 'fly' so well. It was the most embarrassing thing ever, but I don't know, there was just something I felt like I had to prove to those two _children_. I wanted to throw my parents back in their faces when I helped take them down. So, Robin. Nicky was defeated by a bat, Becky was taken down by a Robin."

"I like it. Nice ring to it. Flying creature. It seems to fit."

I take his empty bowl but pause again on my way out the door. "Dick—your parents would be proud of you."

He gives a weak smile and looks down at his bedcovers. "I hope so."


	10. Chapter 10

The night had been relatively quiet. Nothing more interesting than a car robbery to be stopped. There had been two men trying to jack the vehicles, who ended up splitting up and fleeing in different directions. A very simple crime to solve.

As we drive home, I look over at Robin riding shotgun.

"You know, legally you're too young to be sitting in the front seat."

"I know," he says, stretching out. "I'd feel cool even if I wasn't wearing a cape."

"Don't fall asleep, because I'm not carrying you inside if you do."

"I'm not a _kid_, Batman."

We pull into the Batcave, and he leaps out of his seat the minute I open the top. I take a moment to enjoy the cool, moist air that floods the cockpit, before climbing out.

"Back on time today, are we, sir?"

I pull off my cowl and set it in its alcove. "I wasn't aware that I was on the clock, Alfred."

He approaches from behind and sets a tray down next to me. "Well, your food's still warm, Master Bruce. And I made you a fresh cup of tea."

"Thanks, Alfred."

"Hey, Bruce!" Dick's on the level above, looking down at me and waving his mask frantically. "The Gordons got tickets to the Rogues' game tomorrow. Can I go with them?"

I start to think about the recent pace of crime in the area, and the probability of something happening tomorrow during the football game.

The Nicky-Becky situation ended a while ago. Once they were in the hands of Arkham, those names were revealed to be aliases. In reality, the children are John and Katherine Beckinsale, twin siblings. Back in their hometown of Metropolis, they were diagnosed with a form of autism. Their parents and older brother took this into account and looked after them as tenderly as they could. The children were a little odd, but extremely smart—and harmless.

During one of the attacks on Metropolis, one of the alien invasions that Clark had needed help taking down, both parents were killed. Like mine. Like Dick's. Only it wasn't a simple death, a simple murder. The mother and father were trying to protect the children from the aliens, but were torn to pieces in front of the twins' eyes. They were lying on piles on the floor before a member of the Justice League was able to detect the problem and clear the house.

The twins never recovered. They never forgave the heroes for not saving their parents in time, learned to hate the aliens that killed them, and their existing mental condition made it easy for them to fall into an irreversible mindset—one of revenge. They met with remaining aliens, and taught themselves to kill them. They killed any that they could find. They began to enjoy killing creatures. And then they forgot what they were avenging.

Their brother took them out to the country to prevent them from hurting people. They weren't poor to start with, but he spent much of the family's money on medication to keep the twins calm, and safe, and hidden. Even when he got his own job, the money began to run out. But he started to realize that the twins were losing their blatantly aggressive tendencies.

He hadn't realized that the medication was reducing their aggression, but not their desire to kill. If anything, it helped to clear their brilliant minds. They became quieter, spent more time observing, avoided talking. Their brother didn't know what was happening. He was relieved.

Haly's passed through their town one day, the Flying Graysons proving to be especially prominent in the twins' minds. They started spending their free time learning acrobatics.

There was a letter—the letter was never responded to—and one day the brother came home to find both children gone. No note. No indication of where they'd gone. Carter Beckinsale's record ends with notes that he'd fallen into a deep depression, overcome with shame at his failure. The police tried to find the rest of his record, but there was nothing. So either he killed himself, or he found some way to drop off the map. Why? Shame? I don't know.

And the twins followed Haly's to Gotham.

That was five years ago. Apparently the twins settled here. They liked the chaos, the grunginess, the rotten city that Gotham was fighting hard not to be. The twins somehow scratched a living. Maybe as hitmen. And they waited for Haly's to come back around.

They're undergoing treatment at Arkham, and we've put out a notice that the children were found. We're hoping that if Carter is alive, that he'll see it.

However, we put the twins away weeks ago, and things have been relatively quiet since. I try to think of the last time I dealt with someone like Joker, or Riddler, and I'm startled to realize that every single known supervillain is currently accounted for at the moment. The only criminals left on the street are the petty everyday ones that the police can handle by themselves.

"C'mon, Bruce, please?"

The pleading note in his voice almost makes me refuse, but I decide that it's perfectly safe. "Sure."

He pumps his fist in the air and runs in a circle before coming back to the railing. "Oh, and they said that you have to come too."

I hesitate as I hang up my cape. "I don't know if that's a good—"

"Seriously, Bruce, you _have_ to get out sometime. And they bought seven tickets—it'd be rude not to come. You don't wanna offend the Lieutenant, do you?"

I sigh, unbuckling my utility belt. I take plenty of time setting it down onto the table before answering: "All right."

"Yeah!" And it's as Dick bounds back out of the Batcave wearing a huge grin, and Alfred follows, beaming, that I realize the Batman is no longer alone.


	11. Chapter 11

_Epilogue_

Tana walked down the street, wrapped in her overlarge coat as she tried to seek refuge from the cold. It had been three months since she'd been to that circus—three months of absolute hell. More so than usual. Some of her best hideaways had been busted by the police, she'd narrowly escaped jail several times, she'd taken a knife to the gut from a drunken thug, and there was not a single person who would give her an honest job. She hadn't realized how fast a person could age in three months until now. She no longer fretted over every immoral decision she made, and had long since gotten past the mindset of "it's not fair". Instead, she turned to mastering the profession she'd chosen, and was proving to be quite proficient in the art of thieving, even managing to break into the lower offices of Wayne Industries the other day, with nothing but stealth and a knife. Gotten a good chunk of cash for it, too, even if it wasn't as much as she'd have liked.

Which, too often, was the case. She hated being so small—she hated her lack of experience defending herself. She was trying to learn how to fight, but when it came to the mobsters and crime bosses that she dealt with—there was no way to fight them. They offered low pay, she took low pay, because the alternative was to be lying dead in a gutter. Tana didn't pity herself, instead simply filling with hatred and boiling underneath her cool exterior. Still, she was patient. She was waiting for the day when she could give back every single blow that she'd been so generously given.

She was passing by a dark alleyway when a low voice issued from the shadows. "Hey you, come here."

"Like hell," she snapped, and continued walking.

"No, really. You're that thief girl, right? I gotta proposal for you."

She turned around, but remained wary. The man looked unassuming enough. Loosely cropped scraggy brown beard; dark grey eyes; neither large nor small. One hand was occupied by a large briefcase; the other pulled a dark green cap farther down over his face; he had no weapons at hand. She took the risk of entering the mouth of the alley, until she was out of sight of the road.

"What do you want?"

"Well, you see, it's not really me. I have an employer who's rich and powerful, and he's heard about you. He asked me to come down and find you."

"Really," she said flatly. "So what does _he_ want?"

"He wants to make an investment in your abilities."

The man opened his briefcase and Tana looked inside, before lifting one of the items out. It was a black glove, with odd channels and lines running down the tough, yet flexible fabric. "What does this do?"

"All kinds of things. You're a smart girl, I'm sure you'll figure it out."

"So I suppose that they'll somehow help me in my work, but in return for them, I have to do exactly what your employer says?"

"No, actually. You can have that, he just wants to see what you can do. He'll be offering you jobs, of course. And if you're willing to do a few of them, then well… there's more where that came from."

Unable to suppress a spark of curiosity, Tana pulled the glove on, watching as blue light started to flow down the lines. Flexing her fingers, she felt a jolt of electricity jump between two of her fingertips. Then she clenched her fist and slammed it against the alley wall.

It crashed through.

At first, she was stunned. But as she pulled her hand out of the hole, she began to smirk. "I'm sure we can work something out."

* * *

End of Volume 1


	12. Chapter 12

Hi again! So I've been working on Xenith Relit, but finally got around to writing a bit more of this (which I'll be posting over the next few weeks), so as always, enjoy! :)

* * *

Gotham Circus Vol. 2: Climb

* * *

_Prologue_

"Him? Not that I have a problem with it, but...why him?"

"Oh, you'll figure it out. Just do your job and you'll get what you want. And if you're arrested, I'm not going to help bail you out."

"I can handle Batman and his little prick if they ever come knocking."

"Good. So who's actually going to do it?"

"You may have heard of her. She mostly just steals, but she can get into any facility that you could hope for. Even a penthouse like that."

"Don't tell me Catwoman? She doesn't seem like the type."

"Oh no, much smaller. Quite literally. No one knows her real name, but people have taken to calling her Omen."

"And you know that she's going to be willing to take on a job like this?"

"We're fairly sure—but if she's not, I'm sure we'll be able to…convince her."

"And this is only the first."

"Yes. The first of the three to fall. But the others will come soon enough."


	13. Chapter 13

The morning sun is blindingly bright, but it doesn't stop me from staring out the window as I tap my spoon restlessly against my empty bowl. "I'm bored."

"So go and do your algebra."

I immediately straighten up and grab the newspaper that Bruce just set down. "I'm not _that_ bored. I just mean that crime's been really, really low."

Bruce doesn't even look at me, just pours himself more coffee and sets about adding cream. "It comes in waves, Dick."

I sigh and have no choice but to scan the newspaper. We're always on the lookout for suspicious activity, but for the past year or so, it's been mostly peaceful, with all the big names locked up in Arkham. These past few months especially. Though, it's not really surprising. Today's headlines show why.

To start with, there's James Gordon. He's been bumped from lieutenant all the way up to commissioner. His work has been keeping those criminals who've been trying to meet during the day at bay. Batman and I take care of the ones who come out at night. Together, we keep the streets clean.

Then there's Harvey Dent, Gotham's district attorney. Once the bad guys are on trial, he makes sure that they get put where they deserved, and that they _stay_ off the streets. He's incredibly good at what he does, even if people whisper that he's a bit of a schizoid. It's understandable that he'd have some issues, with the kind of family that he grew up in. But now, doing what he does best, he's at the top of his game and sailing smooth.

And then, of course, you can't forget Bruce Wayne. Bruce has been spending more time helping Lucius Fox run Wayne Enterprises, and he's making sure that money gets funneled into support of the police and court systems. And maybe most importantly, his many public appearances and other fundings have been going to keeping Oswald Cobblepot off the throne of mayor.

The newspaper's headline states how Jim Gordon's heroic actions assisted in the arrest of big-time mobster Carmine Falcone, and how Dent's industry and skill got the thug a life sentence. At the bottom, it also talks about the links that have been found between him and Cobblepot's people. I wonder if Bruce paid off the papers to make sure that that last bit was included.

You see, the race for mayor seems oddly close. There's the obvious choice, the shining hero of Gotham, Marion Grange. She's shown before, as town councilman and then as mayor, that she is capable, and has Gotham's best interests in mind.

But then there's Oswald Cobblepot. Rich. From a rich family. And, from what I can see, a complete jerk. Still, he's managed to build himself a platform on top of his money-handling skills and the odd turn of events last fall when Grange's last term as mayor seemed to go sour. I have to give it to him—he's damn good at persuading the masses. That's why when people like Bruce oppose him, he's able to pull the 1% joke, and get even more people to listen. It's a horrible circle.

But in recent polls, Grange is shown to still be in the lead.

And there is nothing to do around here.

"Hey, Bruce, can I take the Aston Martin out for a spin?"

"Keep the windows closed and turn the hologram projector on," he replied, not looking up. "And try not to get pulled over."

I love driving. There are some areas of Gotham, large parks, the quayside, or the country a few miles out, where I can just drive for miles and miles, and have time to think to myself. I know that I'm only fourteen—but Bruce has been teaching me early. He wants me to be able to handle the Batmobile by the time I pass my driver's test. So I go on and try my best.

The past two years have been great. Bruce has gotten me some pretty good tutors, so that I have the option to go to college. It's not like I can see a point to factoring polynomials, but it's new and different and doesn't take up too much time.

Bruce's estate is huge, so I can practice my acrobatics all I want. When we're at the mansion, of course. Right now we're living in one of the tower blocks in the city—exclusively for Wayne enterprises and with the top floors acting as Bruce's penthouse. He said that he wants someplace closer to town for events like elections and closer to his corporation in the event that Wayne Enterprises starts to crash. Luckily, it's just the election, right now. I have to take a series of tunnels to make it out of Gotham.

I'm not even that lonely, living with only Bruce for company. Now that I'm living in the city, I see Barbara and Jackson even more than I did before. Their dad's busy, but we still hang out downtown, and play video games, and visit arcades and such. They don't know where I go after dark every day, but I'm wondering if Bruce will eventually let me tell them. After all, they're my two best friends.

I—I thought that I had my own 'best friend'. But I wrote to her constantly for the first year in Gotham, and I never got one response. I even tried calling her mom's phone, and it turns out that the number's been reassigned. It was startling how fast things changed. I finally got ahold of Haly's one day and they said that Raya's mother left the circus to get better employment, and forced Raya to go along. No clue where.

And Raya knows where I am. _She _could contact _me._ But she hasn't. I honestly don't know what happened.

I cruise down the deserted country lane, splashing through pools of sunlight that drip down from the spaces between the trees' leaves. Against my better instincts, I put the windows down, and the warm breeze floods the car's interior, filling it with the smell of life and ruffling my hair. It's a new life, it's different, but it's okay. It's really okay.

* * *

The figure watched the car slide out of the city, and radioed it in. His boss on the other end of the line didn't seem too happy.

"_Where's he going?"_

"Into the country. But he's been doing this a lot—he'll come back in a few hours."

"_His independence is going to be a problem. We might have to move things along ahead of schedule."_


	14. Chapter 14

Tana sat under a tree in the park, reading a newspaper. Whenever she felt like catching up, she made sure to go somewhere safe, and populated, where the types who employed her rarely ventured. They knew that she was smart—they didn't know that she was educated. Some even thought she was illiterate. She found it to be useful, not humiliating. She always tried to know more about her employers than they knew about her.

The election was interesting. If she weren't a drifter, she'd probably be leaning toward Mayor Grange. But Grange's recent records showed some shift in ideals. She'd always put a large amount of the city's budget towards charity funding, but her targets were starting to move up. Written documents had been exposed, showing that Grange was funneling unnecessary resources into funding the rich in their enterprises. Out of charity. The journalists blamed Grange's personality. They said that she was too kind, too soft to be mayor. Gotham, of all places, needed someone who was willing to stay on task, and prioritize…and who knew how to handle money.

The biased journalists named many of the successes of Oswald Cobblepot.

Even when she was able to read between the lines, Tana couldn't avoid the fact that Grange's interests had shifted to favor the rich. So she was beginning to take Cobblepot a little more seriously.

She smirked, since it didn't really concern her anyway. She couldn't exactly vote. Folding up the newspaper, she left the park, walking for a ways before sliding inconspicuously into a nearby alleyway. It was one of the skinnier ones, that few could easily traverse, and she found it to be the best way to enter her employer's base of operations.

She finally reached the wooden door and knocked once. "Open the door or I'll break the door down and then break your fingers."

There was the sound of several latches unlatching before the door squeaked open and one of Maroni's thugs appeared, wearing an amused grin. "Girl, I'd like to see you try."

Tana shrugged. "Okay." She began reaching for his left hand, and when he intercepted with his right, she came forward with her other hand and bent one of his outstretched fingers backwards with one fluid motion. The crack was quite audible.

He screamed and snatched his hand back. "You little bitch—!"

A voice cleared its throat behind him. "Let her in, Guido."

The strongman ground his teeth and stepped backwards, letting Tana enter. As she passed, she gave him a shrug. "You asked."

She then turned to Rupert, who was wearing his signature floppy green hat and holding a glass of whiskey. He was surveying her over the rim of the glass. "The boss wishes that you'd stop damagin' his employees."

"And wishes don't get squat."

He smirked. "You're right about that. An' I've been wonderin'… why won't you act as hitgirl for Maroni? You've got no problem hurting these guys."

"Killing's a lot more serious and a hell of a lot more traceable. I'd only go for that if I had a reason or if there was a shit ton of cash involved. Get to the point, Rupert. Does Maroni have something for me to do, or no?"

He shrugged, setting down his glass and pulling a cigar out of his pocket. "Yeah. Know the big shiny building downtown? Granite base, huge green logo. It's the headquarters of Mayor Grange's campaign. He needs you to get up to office five-thirteen, on the sixtieth floor. There are a few papers there that he needs you to steal."

"In league with Cobblepot?"

The man shook his head. "No. Private vendetta."

"What kind of papers?"

"Blank ones. Boss says the inside source saw them being stored in the second drawer down on the right in the mark's desk."

Tana grimaced. "Tell him that if he wants to forge more documents to incriminate the mayor, he can find another—"

"No, that wasn't him. Those were genuine. And this isn't the mayor's desk. Like I said—this is private. It won't affect the mayor's campaign. Why are you in'erested, all of a sudden?"

"'Cause I look out for me and mine, and if he's been forging docs to overthrow Grange, then there's something about Cobblepot that denizens like me don't want to find out. Plus, I've got enough cops on my trail as it is."

She watched him carefully as he replied. "Okay. Facts are that this isn't the mayor's stuff you're stealing. Maroni wants them to get back at one of the more corrupted officials who stiffed him a while ago."

Tana shrugged. "Pay?"

"Two hundred cash on delivery."

Tana's eyebrows crept upwards. That would be enough to last her for a few weeks, at least. "Consider it done. You'll get it tomorrow night."

Tana left the building, judged that she still had a few hours before dark, and set off down the alleyway. This was why she couldn't take Cobblepot seriously before. These were Gotham politics—she had no way of knowing what was real and what was fabrication. If Maroni was backing Cobblepot, then Tana knew that she had to pull out of his circle immediately. It meant that he was more corrupt than the rest—and definitely a step down from Grange's sorry excuse for a term.

She knew that she shouldn't even care, being homeless and all, and with a fairly steady cash inflow, but no matter how she acted on the outside, she was still conflicted.

Even if Tana enjoyed stealing a tad bit, that wasn't to say that she didn't want to try and find some form honest work. Something appealed to Tana about the concept of living longer, without the constant fear of discovery breathing down her neck. Mayor Grange had said she'd introduce more programs towards helping the homeless secure jobs, before Cobblepot started his rise. Tana didn't want to help Maroni help Cobblepot, and then find Cobblepot's persona to be a fake. So, she was treading very carefully about Maroni's affairs.

But this seemed safe.

She only had to wait two hours for night to fall, casting a darkness over the city that was soon remedied by the bright oranges and yellows of the streetlamps. Leaning over the edge of the parking structure, she watched as the night life of Gotham started to pick up speed, from rich men driving their fancy cars to fancier restaurants, to corrupt cops picking up hookers on street corners. Finally, she saw the last person leaving the base of the shiny glass tower that she had to infiltrate, the one just a few feet away from where she was standing. She backed up across the pavement, then ran to the edge of the parking garage roof and leapt into the void.

She landed with all four limbs splayed on the edge of the tower, her hands and feet sticking to the glass. She had to admit, even if Maroni was a sketchy guy, she absolutely loved his first few payments. It wasn't every day that a girl got gloves that could stick to walls, emit EMPs, electrify things, and store information. Boots to match, too. And then there was the handy set of knives and lockpicking tools. And the box full of acids and sedatives. Everything she could possibly need. The frigid wind swept over her, flinging her braid to one side as she climbed up the side of the building.

She'd often heard the phrase "don't look down" when it came to heights. She now had no problem with looking down. Even at fifty stories up, She surveyed the glowing streets below her and smirked. Then she continued to climb. The room that she needed was still seven stories above.

Crawling like a spider to the window she needed, she suddenly became grateful that she hadn't been given a ridiculous name, like "Batman". She'd probably have been "Spider-girl" or something like that. But no, working with mob bosses had its advantages. She tended to be their scout, sent in to retrieve a password or bit of code that they would then use in a larger hit. Since her robberies always led to something bigger, she was seen as a kind of bad luck charm. That's what had earned her the name "Omen".

The window ran from floor to ceiling, the interior of the room a neatly stacked office space. Her eyes sought the shape of the burglar alarm box set up by the window, but moved to the office over to press her palm to the glass and knock out an identical one with a targeted EMP. Turning the glove up a notch, she watched as the palm attachment started drilling a hole through the glass. Once she'd made a hole big enough for her hand and unlatched the window, she dropped to the carpet inside and crept to the door. It locked from the inside. Unlocking it, she slid into the hall outside and found the right room. Getting in and scanning for extra security was simple, and she was soon at the desk. In and out. Quick as a shadow. That was her way.

The drawer she'd been assigned to was unsurprisingly locked, but only with a normal pin-tumbler lock, easy as anything to pick. Tana finally worked it open and pulled a stack of the papers out, seemingly blank. Trading her lockpicks for a flashlight, she clicked it on and held it experimentally underneath one of the sheets to see if there was a watermark. She cursed. And she fled.

_These papers are from the desk of Marion Grange_.


	15. Chapter 15

Short chapter, but I'm really busy just about now. Updates will be slow. Sorry for the delay.

* * *

"I've had enough of your bullshit, Rupert!" Tana had nearly broken down the door to get back into Maroni's base of operations. Out of rage, not lack of access. The door swung on its hinges, but the guard had jumped right out of her way the minute he'd seen her through the peephole. He now sat trying to readjust the door in its frame while Tana flicked a throwing knife that shattered the whiskey glass in Rupert's grasp. "I told you I wasn't going to get involved politically!"

He sucked on his bleeding thumb for a second, before holding up his hands. "You got me. But I had nothin' to do withit. Boss's orders. Said it was some kind of test."

"_Test_?" Tana repeated coldly.

"Yes," said a voice from the top of the staircase behind Rupert. "You passed, Omen. I needed to see how deeply you could infiltrate. An' I needed to make sure you had an eye for detail. You succeeded both times." A tall, broad-shouldered man in a white suit emerged from the shadows and began to descend. "Rupert, take five."

"Yes, sir," the smaller man said gratefully, scuttling away into the darkness.

The newcomer stopped to survey the shattered glass, before nudging most of it aside with his foot and sitting down at the table. Removing the stopper from the whiskey bottle and sniffing it, he shrugged and offered it to Tana. She took it and drank, wiping her mouth and passing the bottle back to him. "Maroni. You're… wider than I expected."

"And you're shorter than _I_ expected. Let me get to the point, _Omen_. I have work that needs doing. And no, it don't involve the mayor. It involves Bruce Wayne."

"The rich guy."

"Exactly. You see, it used to be that in Gotham, people lived and let live. But Wayne… nah, Wayne is somethin' else entirely. He's been sniffin' around my operations for years, bringin' them down one by one with his pretty publicized benefactorin' and such. You can understand how a guy would be a little ticked off."

"It must be so hard to live the life of a successful crime lord."

"Clever, eh? What I'm saying is that I'm planning on taking 'im down. But I'm going to do it in a way that he'll never expect."

"And what's that?" asked Tana, though she wasn't particularly interested.

"I'm gonna destroy his house from the inside out. This is why I need you, and your expertise. You're gonna sneak into his tower and get into his ward's room. That kid he adopted, you know? I want you to kill the kid and then get out of there. It'll help distract Bruce at a time that he can't be distracted, and destroy him from the heart. I understand that killing is not your M.O., but I have also point out that there is, in your own words, a 'shit-ton' of money involved."

Tana was practically x-raying him, surveying him dubiously out of her silver-grey eyes. "How much are we talking?"

"Enough. Enough to get you a nice apartment somewhere in the city and some education. I've heard that's somethin' you want. And then some. Interested?"

"You want me to kill an adopted kid in his sleep?"

"The first kill is the hardest, Omen, but it will help you in the long run. Financially and skill-wise." Seeing that Tana was unmoved, he added, "Did I mention the fact that you'll have enough to rent the apartment for the next seven years?"

At that point, the lure became too much for her. The promise of a nice home, of learning something. She nodded. "Any particular way you want it done?"

"I was thinking a knife. But to be 100% sure, some poison on the blade would be good." He raised the bottle in a toast to her and drank.


	16. Chapter 16

"Dick—we've got another Omen strike."

Quickly pausing my game and leaping up from the couch, I see Bruce coming in the door, waving a flashdrive. "Where? Maybe we can figure out her next target and finally catch her."

"I don't know, though. Her M.O. has mainly been minor targets. Taking down crime lords in the service of other crime lords. This security footage caught her breaking into the office of the _mayor_."

My mouth drops. "I thought the mayor was top security."

"She _is. _But nothing was stolen_._" Dropping his coat on the couch I'm sitting on, I see him heading over to the Batcave entrance. Not technically the real 'cave, of course, but the secure, inner area of the penthouse. A penthouse within a penthouse. Pentception? Yeah—Bruce showed me the movie. But I run to follow him as he takes the elevator down.

The moment we've arrived, he pulls up the footage. It's able to track her down the hallway and all the way into the room. "How come she didn't deactivate the cameras?"

"I don't think she's concerned. Everyone knows who she is anyway, and the more she's seen doing things, the more likely she'll be noticed and hired." He watches and taps the screen. "See that? She used her gloves to hack the combination lock on the door. Then she scanned for pressure pads in the floor—with a heat pulse, innovative—before going in. She's good."

"Batman, she's a criminal for hire."

"She's still good at what she does. Wait—there." He pauses the screen, at the point where Omen reached the mayor's desk and reached down to one of the drawers.

"I thought the mayor locked her drawers."

"Just a simple lock. Nothing that can't be picked." He plays the video a little farther, showing Omen pulling a few sheets of paper out of the drawer, that look blank on the tape. Then she puts a flashlight behind it. The reaction is immediate—she covers the flashlight, putting the papers back and running out of the office. Rewinding to the paper she was illuminating, Bruce taps the screen. The center of the paper is lighter than the rest. That'll be Mayor Grange's watermark, that she uses to ensure her documents can't be forged like they were last time. But why—?"

Realization strikes me as Bruce puzzles. "The mayor's room isn't marked, is it? It's only a temporary station for the campaign anyway, not the mayor's actual office at town hall. Omen didn't know she was stealing from the mayor until she read the watermark. And being a relatively low-time thief, she wouldn't want to get mixed up in political affairs."

Bruce sighs and nods. "I think you're right. And that means that we're no closer to catching her in the act. She goes too fast." He shakes his head and shuts off the screen. "What was that you were playing earlier?"

"Portal 2."

"Is it multiplayer?"

Since we're so close to town, Alfred's been spending tons of time with Jackson down in the city. Normally I'd go with him, but today they were going to a baseball game. Just the two of them. And Barbara has some kind of gymnastics competition outside Gotham. I think Bruce knew that, and that's why he's back from his social events early. He's trying to be a good father, and I appreciate that.

I still sleep at night despite being Robin, since it'd look suspicious if I slept during the day. Bruce can do whatever he wants and nobody cares, but I've got to keep up appearances. I keep my door cracked in case Bruce needs me, but crawl under the covers and soon drift off.

It's probably about one in the morning when I snap awake to the sound of someone beside my bed. It's not a careless sound, like a squeak. It's a soft, defeated, "Shit." It takes a moment for me to realize that it's a girl's voice, and I look up to see Omen standing over my bed, the glint of a silvery knife clutched in her right fist, studying me. It's the sight of the weapon that jolts me to action, but by the time I'm up, she's gone, escaped out of the window she entered through. I call for Bruce, trying to figure out where Omen went, but he doesn't come. Where is he? Without knowing what else to do, I sprint across the carpet and out the door, to the first hidden lift (behind the grandfather clock) that I know will take me down to the tower's bat-center.

I'm planning to pull my suit on and take the batpod into the city, to see if I can track Omen, but I've barely put my foot on the cold metal grating outside the lift when I catch sight of what's below me, in the cave. Bruce is standing there, dressed completely as Batman except minus the mask. And standing behind him is a girl. Really young, probably somewhere around my age. A face made older by narrowed grey eyes that make me uneasy. And the girl is wearing a black suit and gloves, mask dangling from her hand, as she takes in the entire scene with extreme suspicion.

"Dick, this is Tana Drader," says Bruce, gesturing to Omen. "And for better or for worse, she'll be helping us for a little while."

* * *

_Minutes before_

Tana became increasingly nervous as she crept up the side of Wayne Tower. The readings she was getting off of her gloves told her that she hadn't been detected yet, but it was a big night. A night that could determine her entire future. All it needed was a first kill.

The night was still, and oddly warm, hinting at the approach of summer. But the city bustled below her, as it always did. Some nights it gave her comfort, the light and life that drifted up from the streets. Tonight, the glow seemed to be one enormous eye that watched her every move.

At last—the top. It took her a while to find a spot where the security cameras moved, to allow her a gap to dart to the roof so that she could disable them. EMPing them would still cause an alert, and she was trying to be extra cautious tonight—she set them on loop. She then dropped back down to the top floor window ledge. Seeing light pouring from most of the upper windows, she only allowed herself a single peek into each one. It was a posh, polished penthouse, but devoid of any signs of life. It was only as she reached the fourth window that her adrenaline spiked and she forced herself to sit on the window ledge for ten seconds to recollect her breath. She hadn't even seen her target—it was the sight of Bruce Wayne, sitting at a table inside, sipping a cup of coffee, that made her uneasy. After all, Dick Grayson was his adoptive son.

The name "Grayson" rung a bell for some reason, but Tana was absolutely sure that she'd never met anyone belonging to the family. Maybe she'd read a news article about them at one point?

A few windows over, her heart moved up to start pounding in her throat.

The room was wide and spacious, but quite clearly belonged to a young boy. Books lining the shelves, a video game system plugged into the TV in the corner, a bright rug on the floor and small clothes strewn throughout the room. There was a four-poster bed tucked into the corner, and Tana's heart skipped a beat when she saw that there was a form underneath the covers, chest slowly rising and falling.

Recovering her posture, she used her gloves to take a reading of the window and the wiring surrounding it. Any attempt to open or break the window would result in an alarm being set off. All of the other windows had shown the same readings. But the wiring from them all seemed to be going to the same place, somewhere deep within the facility. That meant that it wasn't hooked up to any bells or lights; a silent alarm. And since it wasn't any maker she recognized, she guessed that it was custom-made—the alarm would probably go off if the alarm itself was disabled.

Churning in frustration, she studied the window and decided she had no choice. She had to trip the silent alarm, get in, and get out before anyone arrived. She was wearing a sheath at her left hip, containing her steel knife, tipped with the poison she'd obtained from Maroni's supplier. Plant-based, not synthetic. It would biodegrade fast and be harder to trace. In her right hand, she pulled out the knife, while she fired up her left glove. While she didn't recognize the alarm, she recognized the glass. It was thick, and as hard as diamonds. To cut it, even with a diamond saw, would take time—time in which alarms would be going off. Luckily, though, she'd at least made that modification to her gloves. After a deep breath, her glove was at maximum power. She swung her fist at the glass, and on the moment of impact, it emitted a sound-absorbing mini-shockwave to cover the noise.

Minutes. She had minutes before some kind of help arrived. Sliding her fingers into the hole she'd punched in the glass, she unlatched the window, pushing it open and dropping down to the carpet inside. Stealing over to the bed, she found the kid rolled with his back to her. Her eyes found the spot on his back underneath his shoulderblade, but between his ribs and spine, that led to his heart. She'd drawn on all her resolution and was bringing the knife down when he had the fortune to roll over.

And that night came flooding back to her.

The one that her life came toppling down—the one at the circus. She'd heard it could happen as a result of trauma, that people could lose memories. She remembered that night, but in her shock, she'd forgotten one detail, and that detail came flooding back at the sight of the boy's face.

Grayson. This was the boy who'd lost his parents at the circus that night.

At this point, she knew that she had seconds. He was on his back now, chest and neck exposed. Perfect target. She reminded herself what was at stake with this assignment, but screams edged their way to the front of her brain, the anguished cries of a little boy as his parents tumbled to their deaths below his eyes. And even as she gritted her teeth and hated the boy in front of her for the pain he was causing her, she knew that she couldn't do it. She swore aloud, letting the knife fall to her side, and saw him turn. But before he could get to his feet, she sprinted to the window and dropped away, shooting down the side of the building.

Halfway down, she realized that she couldn't return to the city. It wasn't just the reward that she'd failed to obtain by not completing her task—it was the consequence of leaving it unfinished. Usually, she got what she wanted, because she was stronger than the men at hand. She could take out Maroni's thugs, if she wanted. Hell, she could take _him_. But ten of his goons? Fifty? A hundred? He had no shortage of thugs in the underground of Gotham where she made her home. And if he saw her as a liability, a loose end, he would do anything to make sure she was cleaned up. What had she just done? And for something as ridiculous as _sentiment_? She couldn't—she'd trained herself to not—

She sat on a window ledge halfway down Wayne tower and yanked her mask off, pitching it down onto the stone beside her while burying her face in her hands. She had to focus. She had to think of something. She had to—

After a moment, she lowered her hands. "Gave yourself away, Wayne. That reaction time was much too fast. Three minutes, I'd say?"

The Batman was standing on the ledge next to her, having picked up her fallen mask. She had to admit that he was every bit as tall and imposing as the pictures and stories made him seem. He was studying the multiple reflective eyepieces sewn into the fabric. "You're pretty sharp."

"Maybe. Or maybe just not stupid. Well," she considered her actions up at the penthouse. "I don't even know anymore."

"Unless you want to spend the rest of your life in juvie, I suggest you give me that weapon right now and tell me who you are—and who you're working for."

Though she remained calm on the outside, Tana was panicking. And the first result of panic for her was always anger. Then, the fog cleared, and she finally understood what she had to do. "My name is Tana Drader. I'm a nobody that got lucky. And I was sent here to kill Richard by a guy named Sal Maroni." Tana handed her knife to Batman, hilt first. "Careful with that thing. It's poisoned."

Batman took the knife and stashed it somewhere in his utility belt. "Why would Maroni target Dick?"

"I'm caught anyway, Bats. I'm not saying another word to you."

"Tana," said Batman, sitting down next to her. "I've seen all the footage, you know. Read all the articles. I can tell by your M.O. that you aren't a bad person. You're not doing this for greed—you're doing it for survival. But there are better ways to survive."

"I know. I know, I really—I tried, Mr. Wayne. But now I've got no choice. If I help you now—Maroni will make sure that I never make it out of the GCPD alive. I can't help you. I'm sorry."

"What if I got you into witness protection? I can ensure your safety after this has blown over. But you have to tell me everything you know about Maroni's whereabouts."

Tana looked into his eyes and saw that he wasn't joking. He actually wanted to help her.

"You better deliver."


	17. Chapter 17

"Bruce, are you _insane?_ She just tried to kill me!"

"But she didn't. And why is that, Dick?"

"How should—" I begin indignantly before Bruce cuts me off.

"It's because she has a soul. And if her soul is intact, it can still be saved."

I look at the security footage of the living room, where Tana is sitting on the couch with her knees drawn up to her chest. She knows she's being watched, and so isn't moving, isn't even looking around. Just sitting there, brooding. "Did she tell you anything useful?"

"That Maroni tried to kill you to destroy me. He's got a personal grudge against me, for the money I've put into bringing his organization down. But this plan—I don't think it's his. He's not this bold. Someone planted this idea inside his head. He thinks he's using it for his own gains, but it's for someone else's end result. Tana also told me where Maroni's base of ops is."

"Wait—but who else would stand to gain if you went down?"

"A good many people, and none of them good. Pick one, Dick."

I consider grumbling, but change my mind. "So, what's the plan?"

"We stake out the base tomorrow, track incoming and outgoing people and messages, and see if we can't figure out who the real master behind this plan is."

"Can I sleep down here?"

"Dick, you need to understand something very important: Tana is human. You need to know her story before you go up."

"Knowing where she came from isn't gonna—"

"I found her file. Her mother's name was Ingrid Drader. No one knew who her dad was. Her mother left her at the Gotham orphanage when she was a baby, so she never knew either of her parents. She ran away from the orphanage at the age of eight because of the bad conditions. I've tried giving them funding, but—" He broke off, having to go back and find his thread again. "Anyway, she's been scraping together a life on the streets, but apparently has been in the service of Maroni for quite some time now. She's refused to kill people or do things that directly harm the innocent. She's still willing to cut corners, and has a short, cold temper, but she's tried not to pull any jobs like—well like this one."

"So I guess she broke her clean str—"

"Dick, do you know what they offered her in exchange for your life? Seven years' stable living conditions and an education. "

"Oh," I say in a small voice.

"And even then, she couldn't do it. She saw her future mapped out and risked it all because she couldn't kill you. Now what does that say about her?"

I scratch my head, partly in confusion, mostly in shame. "Definitely human."

"That's not to say that I want you to ever be alone with her. But keep it in mind."

We go back into the apartment to discuss our plan with Tana, and find her where we left her, sitting, tapping her fingers restlessly against the side of her boot. Bruce confiscated her utility belt, knives, and gloves, and she seems even more bitter without them. Bruce also showed me her mask—the several eyepieces sewn into it gave it a spiderlike appearance. She watches us silently as we approach out of her closed-off grey eyes, one leg crossed over the other.

Bruce sits down across from her. "Is there anything else you can tell us about Maroni's headquarters? Entrances, or possible escape routes?"

She looks like she's fighting to swallow a lump of liver before she finally brings herself to answer his question.

"The front entrance is usually loosely guarded, but he'll have directed most of his thugs to guard it now that he knows I've been compromised. It's easy to defend and a bad point of entry. If you want to go in, there are two routes that I know of that he doesn't. There's a very large garbage chute at the back of the facility, that leads down to a dumping point in the basement. The doors from the basement in are all well secured, but from the outside to the basement is a pretty simple lock. From there, it's easy to climb the chute, since it's the secondary one and no one uses it a whole lot. And the fourth window from the right on the second floor streetside has a broken latch that everyone else thinks is perfectly operational. Opening it won't set off any alarms."

She lapses into silence, going back to tapping her fingers on the edge of her boot, speed increasing with her agitation.

"You're going to remain under constant surveillance as long as you're here. I've asked Alfred to clear a room for you to stay the night, but it _will_ be locked and alarmed. Understand?"

"I'm burning all my bridges by informing on Maroni, Wayne, I hope you realize that. But you can't trust me. I understand. Is there anything else you want to know?"

"No. Go ahead and turn in, if you want. Your room is at the very end of the hall, on the right."

She stands up and exits the room, and after a seconds' hesitation, I get up to follow. I can see the wariness in Bruce's eyes, but he figures that since Tana's unarmed, I'd be able to take her in a fight if it came to that. He nods, and I run after her.

She's halfway down the hall when I catch up. "Hey."

She glances at me, face hardening. "What do you want?"

"Well… to thank you, I guess. For not killing me, I mean. I appreciate it."

"It was the worst mistake I've ever made." She keeps walking, and I have no idea how to respond. Finally, I ask, "So, what do the gloves do?"

"Give me access to anywhere I want to go. They let me climb walls, hack electronic locks, scan for alarm systems, and emit EMPs, to name a few things."

"Cool. Do you ever go climbing just for fun?"

She's finally looking at me, and seems surprised for the first time. "Yes."

"Which buildings? It seems like Karon towers would be cool. Or the sky garden. Have you been up to the sky garden? I love it there."

"Sometimes. When it's closed, and everyone else is asleep. Why are you asking?" The breaks in her impenetrable exterior seal up, and she surveys me with newfound suspicion.

"Just curious," I say, holding up my hands. "You know, once we put Maroni away, wanna play video games or something?"

Now she looks truly confused. "I just tried to kill you, Grayson. Why would you want to play video games with me?"

"You didn't kill me, and that's what matters, right? Have you ever played Dragon Slayers 2?"

"I've never touched a game console in my life. Except once when I stole one to pawn."

"Then we have to fix that. Slayers is tons of fun, and there's a multiplayer option I've never tried before, though it's supposed to unlock—"

"I'm not in the mood for deception, Grayson. Why are you being nice to me?" When she looks at me with genuine perplexion, I realize that kindness is not something that she's used to.

"You were nice to me in letting me live. I'm returning the favor. Tomorrow night, okay? After we're back."

Her eyes have finally left their default state, somewhere between angry and suspicious, and in their uncertainty, I notice that her face is actually quite pleasant when she doesn't look like she's about to spit fire. "I—I suppose so."

We've reached her room, Alfred coming out at the exact moment we've arrived. Tana's face immediately closes off again, and I sigh silently before addressing Alfred. "How was your day with Jackson?"

"Quite the adventure, Master Grayson. And this is Miss Tana Drader, I presume."

I nod, then quickly realize that Tana can't see me since I'm behind her, and gesture wildly for Alfred to shake hands with her. I twirl my finger next to my head and point at Tana, and Alfred gets the message. He holds his hand out to her with a smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Drader."

Utterly bemused, Tana shakes Alfred's hand. He then passes her, waving towards the open door. "I regret to inform you that I will have to lock the door behind you, miss. All precautions must be taken. But if you need anything at all, please inform me. I am at your service." And as the door closes in front of her bewildered face, I'm sure that we've succeeded in completely throwing her off guard.

When Alfred looks at me questioningly, I just say, "She's not used to people being nice to her. It confuses her. And maybe it'll help her."

"Indeed, sir. Now, I suggest you return to bed. I've checked the corners for assassins and am pleased to inform you that there are none. Your windows have also been resealed and Master Bruce will be on patrol, and he said—" he holds up a hand as I start to protest, "—that he wouldn't have had any sleep, anyways."

Bruce is going to need his strength for tomorrow, but I know that nothing I say will convince him. I climb back into my bed with a batarang on my bedside table, and know that their efforts are futile—there's no way that I'm going to sleep tonight.

* * *

"_Say that again_!" Maroni threw a potted plant at the head of the messenger. He expected it, however, and was able to duck it.

"Omen has been compromised, sir," the runner boy said again, calmly. He was used to his boss's fits of temper. "Apparently she lacked the resolve to carry out the mission, and Bruce Wayne took her into his home. She complied."

"She _broke into_ _Wayne Tower,_ and _didn't even have the guts to finish him?_"

"That is correct, sir." He leapt nimbly aside to dodge the pen that whistled by his ear and lodged in the wall behind him.

"Then make sure she never comes out. Put my men on watch. If Omen is ever seen again, she is public enemy number one and to be killed on sight. And I _know _that you're scared of her, so make sure you've got numbers. She's a loose end that I never should have created. She's dangerous. She—"

"Message for you on your private wave, sir."

"What? _Now?_"

The messenger listened to it for a few seconds, before frowning. "It's in Morse code, sir."

"And I take it you _know_ Morse code?"

"No sir. Your previous messenger did, but you had him killed when he brought you the news about—"

"You're _useless_. Give me that." Maroni snatched the radio from the man's grasp and listened. His face faded from enraged green back to his normal red like a ripening tomato, and he beckoned to his messenger. "Get everyone in here, _now!"_


	18. Chapter 18

I swing over to the fourth window from the right at Maroni's headquarters. I'm getting the thrill-chills at the thought of getting to take out Maroni, taking into consideration the fact that he just tried to have me killed. After Tana gave us the information on his base, we came up with out plan. We left Tana at Wayne Tower with Alfred, and Batman is keeping an eye on the perimeter for any outside activity, even though he says that it looks like most of the stuff going on is inside. It's incredibly busy on the bottom floors, he says. He wants me to get into the ventilation system to deploy bugs, so we can hear what's going on. He trusts in my abilities to get in and out quickly and silently. And if I need help, I have the button on my utility belt that sends out a distress signal.

I shiver as I cling to the window frame, scoping out the corners of the room through the night-cooled glass. Then, I push the window experimentally to find it loose and swinging. The latch looks like it was broken from excessive use. I climb in and drop to the floor, feet hitting the degrading concrete. I'll have to make sure that I don't kick any around or track it into the wrong places. But the vent in this room is too small for me to enter, so I check the corners again and go to the door to find it locked.

This doesn't alarm me, because it's easy to get through a locked door, but it surprises me. There's nothing in this room of value; it's completely empty. Maybe all unused rooms are locked, around here. I get out my tools and start to pick it, despite the fact that it was never my best skill. I'm starting to get a headache by the time I hear it click.

I stand up and realize that it's not a headache, that I feel lightheaded.

And I notice a slight ripple around the vent before I black out.

* * *

Tana knocked on her door. "Alfred?"

It only took a few minutes for the Englishman to reach her door. "Yes, Miss Drader?"

"Um… I was wondering if I might have a glass of water. I haven't drunk anything since lunch yesterday."

"Right away, Miss."

A few minutes later, the door opened, and Alfred entered, glass of water in hand. He was cautious, but found Tana sitting on the bed, covers rumpled. Closing the door and crossing over to her, he handed her the glass. "Have you slept?"

"No. I've tried, though."

"You should try opening the blinds and looking at the lights of the city. It's always calmed me down."

Tana sipped the water and looked at him, inspecting his impeccable coattails and pristine white butler's gloves. It had always interested her, the concept of a butler. Someone who willingly put himself at the beck and call of others. He had so many other options, and he chose to tend to the needs of the Dark Knight. Why? "I wish I could see the stars, though. I've lived in Gotham my entire life, so I've never seen them. The city doesn't calm me down because I remember what's in it." Finishing the water, she handed the glass back to him. "Thank you for everything, Alfred. I'm sorry."

He smiled at the girl sitting before him. "There's no harm done, Miss Drader, other than a broken window. Is there anything else you require?"

She shook her head, swinging her feet up onto the bed and putting her back to him. He'd turned away and was halfway across the room when the blow caught him across the back of the head, knocking him out. He hadn't even heard the covers rustle.

Tana caught both the glass and the man before they fell. Quickly pulling Alfred up onto the bed, she yanked the bottom off of one her boots and pulled out the lump of clay and packet of specialized gelatin that she carried. After taking a mold of Alfred's thumb, Tana made a gelatin print and stuffed the clay back into the boot. Once she had her boots on, she ran to the door, and looked back at Alfred lying on the bed.

"I really am sorry," she whispered, before taking off down the hall to break into the Batcave and retrieve her possessions before making her escape.

* * *

Batman was uneasy. Robin was supposed to have reported by now. But there had been no commotion inside—no sign of a struggle. Maybe he was just being cautious. But he wasn't about to take that chance. He opened a channel. "Robin? What's the delay?"

Batman froze as an unfamiliar voice answered. "I've been waiting for you to finally call. I can't figure out how to work this damn thing, and your little sidekick isn't in any kind of shape to tell us. You listen to me, _Batman_. This is Sal Maroni, and if you want to get your little buddy back, you'll surrender yourself to us."

"I should warn you, Maroni, I don't take well to threats."

"No? Then take well to this." Batman heard Maroni shout something to a person nearby, which was followed by a thud and a cry of pain. Unmistakably Robin's.

"What I meant by that was that if you hurt him, you and all your men will pay in kind."

"Yeah? Well, make us pay fast. I'm well-guarded, Batman. You have twenty-four hours to turn yourself in, twenty-four hours that aren't going to be very easy on your friend here. It's your choice." There was the sound of an earpiece being dropped to the floor, before the line went dead. Batman clicked his off. They had Robin. He had to act fast. But the problem was that they'd taken Robin so easily, like—

Like they knew they were coming.

He knew that he didn't have a lot of time, but he had to come up with a plan of attack.

And make sure that Alfred was all right.

* * *

After blacking out, I almost came to at one point, only to be punched in the face and returned to the void. Now, finally, I blink, trying to focus on the room before me. All the while, my head is spinning, trying to figure out how we let this happen. Nothing clicked when I hit the floor, no detectors blinked, no vents hissed, nothing that I had done in that room had triggered the defenses. It had already been full of gas.

The first thing I hear is chuckling. When I shake my head and finally snap out of the fog, I can see a tall man in a white suit standing in front of me, laughing, who can only be Sal Maroni. "That's right, squirt. It's not so hard when we know you're coming."

I realize that I'm hanging by my wrists, and I panic for a moment before I realize that I'm still wearing my mask. Why wouldn't he unmask me?

Either Maroni is a mind-reader, or he's just really good at figuring out what people are thinking. "You're still all secret because my informant put in a word for you. Apparently, she respects a person's right to the mask, since she wears one herself."

This time I'm really shocked, and I swivel my head to see a familiar figure leaning against the doorframe at the edge of the room. To stop my mouth from falling open, I stutter, "T—Omen?" But she doesn't look at me. She has her arms crossed and she's staring at the floor like it bores her, and maybe slightly disgusts her.

"She was smart, kid. She knew that she was a dead girl the moment she stepped out of Wayne Tower, so she did the only thing she _could_ do—spy on Batman. She's been sending Morse code messages to me ever since she got into the place. You thought she was informing on me while she was really telling me where you'd be." He chuckled again. "I guess you didn't think to confiscate her boots. Sit tight, kid. Batman should be along soon to pick you up. And if he's not—all the more fun for us then, eh?" He's still chuckling as he exits the room, and Tana moves to follow before I call out to her.

"We were going to protect you."

She turns around. Before, she'd had a snap of anger, but also of sass—now she just sounds flat. Dead. Done. "Against him? Robin, you couldn't protect yourself against me while you were in _Wayne Tower_."

"How did you swing that, by the way? Not revealing our secret identities?"

"I said what everyone else knows. Bruce Wayne is a friend of the Batman's. After I was taken inside by Bruce, I was taken to the Batman to inform on Maroni. It wasn't that hard. Robin, you have to understand—even if Maroni is in jail, that won't stop him. I can intimidate him and his men on a daily basis, but you can't walk away from something like this unfinished. If he's absolutely certain that killing someone is necessary, he'll go through any means to do it. I did this because I want to live. I know it won't mean anything, but I'm sorry."

"If you were actually sorry, you'd help me get out of here."

"I'm not _that_ sorry."

Before I can say another word she's gone. After a couple moments thrashing, I realize that there's nothing I can do. My utility belt is on the other side of the room and I can't even move my hands. I'm stuck, and if Batman is even close to smart—it's going to be a long wait.


	19. Chapter 19

After a few hours, I fall asleep, but when I wake up, my wrists are splitting with pain from the metal digging into my wrists. Just as well they're getting numb. But I'm also hungry, and thirsty, and have a headache as a side effect of the knockout gas they used.

There's a guard by the door, but he's bored to the point of blowing specks of dust around for entertainment. He's noticed that I'm awake, but doesn't seem to particularly care. He only looks at me when I speak. "Can I get some water?"

Seeming happy to finally have a distraction, he shoves the door open. "The prisoner wants water."

Sal Maroni's voice answers from the other side of the door. "He doesn't need water."

Disgruntled once more, the guard shuts the door and goes back to watching dust floating through the light of the lamp by the door. After a few minutes, though, a fist smashes against the metal porthole, voice on the other side snapping, "Open the door." Upon seeing who it is, the guard's face drains of blood and he quickly unlatches the door again and yanks it open. Tana steps through, coming up to me. For a moment, we stare at each other wordlessly, until she pulls a canteen off of her belt and unscrews the top. "Drink."

When I'm done drinking, I try to talk to her, but she's gone in a flash.

By the time ten o'clock rolls around, I can't feel my arms, and my shoulders are cramping up something awful. Last night's call went out around midnight, and I can see the guard getting more and more nervous as time goes on. Maroni enters the room with five of his goons around eleven, and at fifteen minutes to go, he huffs with impatience. "I want you to search the kid's belt, see if you can find some other kind of communication device."

It offends me that those guys are even touching my utility belt, but one of the men goes over to it and starts sifting through the gadgets. Finally, he holds up my secondary radio. "Here, sir."

Maroni takes it, but can only get static. He thrusts the radio at me. "How do you work this thing?"

I look at it, then return his question with a silent smirk. He takes it in with a look of forced calm. "Cocky, huh?" He then moves remarkably fast for a man of his stature, hitting me across the face with the radio. I feel the hard plastic strike my skin, and the corner of my mouth begins to bleed. He doesn't ask for any more help, instead playing around with the radio until he finds the button to open the wave to Batman's communicator. "It's getting late, Batsy. You better show up soon if you want your sidekick coming out in one piece."

Bruce's voice comes buzzing out of the speakers. "_I warned you not to touch him again, Maroni_."

"But I don't seem to be getting any result, do I? Need more incentive?"

I know what's coming, but can't move to stop it. Maroni hits me, once on one cheek and again on the other, and my vision starts to swim with stars. I didn't make any noise, but the thud of knuckles on flesh would be unmistakable on Bruce's end. Maroni then slams his fist into my gut and I can't help the noise that escapes my lips.

He's winding back for another punch when he's surprised by the radio being knocked from his hand and clattering to the floor. Omen is standing there behind him, unclenching her fist. "Stop, Maroni. Either Batman is coming, or he isn't." She leans down and scoops up the radio, shutting it off before she continues, "You aren't getting him here any faster."

Maroni's face is reddening by the second. "You're telling _me_ how to run _my house_? Might I remind you that—" His head suddenly swivels like an owl's and he looks at me. "Wait a second…you feel _bad_ for him, don't you?" He laughs. "What happened to you up there in the tower? Did your brains melt along with your resolve? Well _I'll_ tell you something! The only reason you're _still_ alive is because you came back to finish this job for _me_. You intimidate my men, and when this is over, you can do as you like. But right now, if I hear another _peep_ outta you, you're going to—"

A muffled explosion rocks the building, sending Maroni careening to the floor. Omen stumbles, along with the rest of the men in the room, and Maroni picks his face off the tile, screaming. "It's the Batman! Everyone to your positions! _Do not let him leave this building!_"

In a thunder of boots, they all exit. I know that if it _is_ Bruce, he'll have set off the explosion as a decoy and entered the building by another route. No one will notice the alarm breach in the rest of the confusion. The only question is, which—

Then I feel a finger tapping me on the shoulder, and I look over to have him standing behind me. The window in the top corner has an acid hole in it, and I grin, whispering, "Took you long enough." He returns the smile, and uses a batarang to cut the ropes connecting to the ceiling, catching me as I fall and lowering me onto the floor. I try to rub some of the feelings back into my arms, but Batman pauses me as he takes me by the shoulders.

"Are you hurt?"

"Not really. Now are we going to take this sucker down?"

"That can _wait_, Robin. We should get you home—"

"No, I want to go out there. If not to get Maroni, to talk to Tana."

I can see Bruce's eyebrows narrowing beneath his mask. "You _do_ realize that she was—"

"Spying on us, yeah. But I think I might be able to talk to her, Batman. I have an idea, and I need you to let me try it." Bruce listens carefully as I explain, and his response is immediate.

"No."

"Batman, please let me—"

"Not after what she's done to you. There's a reason that I didn't make that an option in the first place, Robin. She's _dangerous."_

"She's dangerous so long as we're her enemies. Let me try, just this once."

Batman's chewing the inside of his cheek as he contemplates the idea, before giving in, perhaps remembering how he was the one to convince me that Tana deserved a second chance. "Try to make it a last resort—I can tell you now that it's not a good idea. And it's going to be dangerous out there in the main room, Robin. Turns out Maroni likes to hoard oil. Some of it may have caught fire when I set off the first bomb. Accidentally, of course." As if on cue, there's a second explosion, this one closer, right outside the door. "Oops."

"I'm going out there to find her," I say. "Make sure I've got a ride home!"

When I exit the room, I find myself on a metal catwalk, overlooking a huge room. It's filled with guns, stolen goods, press machines—but it's in flames. I see barrels of oil placed around the room, and many of them have to be only half full, because they're blowing up with enough force to displace a herd of elephants. I can see the smoking hole in the side of the building where the original explosion took place, and Maroni's men swarming away from it, finally realizing that they've been duped, while trying to avoid the flaming oil and wreckage. As I overlook the carnage, I see Maroni, suit smeared with soot, stumbling towards the front exit, shielding his face from the heat and smoke. And as I survey him, he looks up and sees me. "Omen, _get _him_! Get him now!_"

My eyes finally find Tana, sitting calmly on the catwalk at the other end of the room, flames reflecting out of her eyes. Her mask dangles loosely from her hand, seemingly made difficult to use because of the flames and smoke. She clearly suspected that the first explosion had been a trick, and was watching to see where Batman actually was. Or maybe she didn't really care. She'd done what she needed to, and was back in Maroni's good books. Back on the side of Gotham where she belonged; where she could live her old life without the fear of being murdered by a vengeance-seeking crime lord. Now, she looks from Maroni to me, and grimaces, getting to her feet, and casting the mask onto the catwalk beside her.

"Omen," I say as she approaches, feet picking up speed on the hot metal grating. I realize that the flames are too loud for anyone to hear us anyway, and use her real name. "Tana!" But she doesn't stop.

The fight is tough from the very start. She hasn't trained with the best, like me, but she's been fighting all her life to stay alive. I duck the first kick but nearly duck right into a countermove and am forced to leap backwards. I can see by the way she moves that she also isn't one for acrobatics. But a good firm stance can be just as effective. And I realize that I'm at a bit of a disadvantage when she lands a direct hit on my chest and I'm sent flying backwards, much farther than I should have been. As I'm getting back up, I realize that it's her gloves. They aren't just for stealing.

From then on, I'm careful about where she's aiming. When she cuts from the side, the hits don't seem as powerful. I try to grab them and redirect them, but she's fast. Almost as fast as me. At one point I manage to pin her arm and twist it down. "Why don't you think that the police can protect you?"

"Maroni's got guys in the GCPD. They'll know if I get myself an identity of my own, they'll know where I go." Her other elbow finds my nose and I stagger backwards, barely managing to avoid her oncoming kick. "Whoever I could go to to get a new life, he'd still know."

"If you could get out of Gotham—" I'm forced to flip away from her punch and land on the catwalk spanning the center of the room.

"I'd do what, exactly?" she snarls, as we simultaneously attack and dodge each other, her dropping into a leg sweep and me grabbing an overhead pipe and lifting both feet in a kick at her head. "This is all I know, Grayson. It's better than sitting in a shop my whole life, wishing I'd done something more exciting."

The next kick lands directly on my jaw, but I dodge again and speak through a mouthful of blood. "And is this life really so much better? You'll die, Tana, eventually. You'll wind up dead in a gutter and no one will even notice that you're gone."

I'm tensing to dodge the next hit, but it doesn't come. Tana's panting heavily, leaning on the rails of the catwalk, looking into the flames below. "I don't know what else to do."

"If you really need it, we could get you into witness protection in another state. Another country. You could try to let someone else help you climb out of the pit you've put yourself in. Try to trust."

She gives a humorless snort. "A _try_ is a difference between life and death, Grayson. And it's not a matter of can you, can't you, it's a matter of time. How long before my past catches up with me. The only way I'm safe is by teaming up with the people who otherwise would—"

"For the love of _God,_ Omen!" We both look to see Maroni still standing there. The room is completely empty, and in flames, but he's lingering by the door to make sure that Omen carries out his work. "If you can't defeat him, _kill him!_"

She attacks again, but with a feeling of indecision and desperation. Her attacks are sloppy and wearied, and I knock them aside driving her backwards. I want to tell her more, want to make her my offer that Bruce discouraged, and I can see that she wants to talk to me, vent her frustration at what Gotham's become and spill to me how truly afraid and confused she is, but we both don't know how. And then I realize that we've reached the edge of the catwalk, and that the parrying blow I've just dealt her is going to drive her over the edge. There's a split second—a fragment of time that hangs frozen in front of me for a matter of seconds—where she's teetering off balance, and she's looking almost longingly into the roaring, searing flames below, the promise of a permanent exit from a painful world.

And as she falls, she makes no attempt to save herself.

I lunge to the edge of the catwalk and grab her arm before she disappears. I get a response that's hard for me to process.

"Let _go_ of me!"

"No way. I'm not leaving here without you." She tries to get me off with a zap from her gloves, but even as my body spasms, I continue to hang on.

"I still don't see why you care!"

"Because when I look at you, Tana, I see someone that I might have been friends with! In another time, in another place, we could have gotten along. We could have played video games and visited Sky Garden together, and the reason that I _care_ is that I don't think that reality has been lost yet. I'm getting you out of here."

"What about _my side_, Grayson? You think you're helping me, but in truth, you have _nothing_. What you think will help me will only seal my death warrant." She tries to jerk her hand out of my grip, but I refuse to let go.

"You don't know th—"

"I've known it since I first walked into a crime lord's front door! Grayson, all I want is to decide how and when I die! What could you _possibly _have to offer me _better than that?_"

Last resort. Bruce said. "_Home_, Tana."

When she looks at me, her eyes have lost a bit of their desperation, and she's stopped struggling. I continue. "You don't _have_ to leave Wayne Tower. You don't have to take a boring shop job, but you don't have to be afraid, either. You can have a place to stay, everything you need, and even something of a family, if you want. You won't have to deal with anybody anymore. Please, come with me."

I can see that she's giving in. Because I'm offering her something she's never had, but something that she secretly, desperately wants. "You would…do that? After what I've done to you?"

"I believe in second chances."

We stare at each other, and suddenly, Tana snaps out of her moment of emotion. "Is your cape fireproof?"

"What?" I say, utterly bemused. "Yes, it is, but—"

"Give it to me. Wait, no, just undo it and let it fall towards me. _Now_, Grayson."

I don't know what she's doing, but I comply anyway, undoing my cape's fastening with one hand. "What are you doing?"

She swings her other hand up to the catwalk, but only to grab the cloak. She then looks me in the eyes and smirks, the first time I've seen anything even remotely close to a smile. "Dying. See you on the other side." The next shock pulse to come out of her glove is huge, and I'm forced to let go. I stare in horror as Tana falls away into the flames, my cloak falling with her and tangling around her. I don't even have the breath to call out.

The next thing I hear is a loud snort, and I look to see Maroni at the door, spitting into the fire as he finally ducks out.

But the smoke is becoming thicker, and I realize that there's nothing left for me to do. I run down the catwalk, jumping over the side and sliding down one of the metal supports until I reach the hole in the wall left by Batman's first attack. As I'm leaping out, my ears detect the Batmobile approaching, and I finally climb over the last bits of rubble to see the car parked and Batman coming towards me. "Robin! Where's Omen?"

"I—" I look back into the burning building, still trying to process what I've seen. "I don't know, I—"

"Right here, loser." I'm spinning around when my cape catches me full in the face. I claw it down to see Tana limping away from the open window she's just climbed out of. "I _did_ have to return your cape at some point."

Batman hadn't seemed particularly happy when I revealed my plan to him, and now looks at Tana with neutrality. "Omen."

"Batman." She returns his blank stare. "Robin tells me that you're willing to give me a place to stay. Indefinitely."

"You have to make an effort to keep it. And not sell out your caretakers to crime lords."

I think that Bruce missed it, but for one second—one tiny, split second—I see a glimmer of hope flash through the silver discs that are Tana's eyes. "I think I can do that."


	20. Chapter 20

Once we're there, I can tell that Tana intends to keep her promise. She doesn't protest when Bruce asks to have her belt, gloves, and boots until she's earned them back, and to stay in her room for the time being. And when Bruce half-jokingly asks her if she's carrying any other weapons or devices we should know about, she rolls her eyes and enters the bathroom, everything that she was wearing coming flying in a wad out from behind the door a minute later and thudding to the floor. "Have a field day, Bruce."

I'm passing by her door a while later when I hear her and Alfred conversing inside.

"—belong to young Master Grayson, but they should fit until we can get you some new clothes."

"Thank you so much, Alfred. And I want you to know that I really am sorry for what I did."

"I realize now that you've already apologized for that, but I'll take the second one anyway. I'll give you some advice about the Wayne household, though—actions speak louder than words. And keeping your word matters most of all. Now, if you haven't anything else to do, I suggest you get started on these books—they're quite marvelous. Have a good night, Miss Drader."

He nearly bumps into me as he's exiting, pausing to say, "I'm delighted that we've taken yet another orphaned fighter-child under our wing, but I hope this doesn't become a habit, Master Grayson. Wayne Tower can only hold so much."

"I'll try to keep it under twenty," I reply, slipping inside the door. The room looks a lot like mine, with a four poster bed tucked in the corner and wide, arching windows. The walls are lined with bookshelves, like the ones back at the Manor. I see Tana staring wordlessly at the old volumes, clad in some old clothes of mine, loose jeans and a baggy sweater. Yet it's amazing how little of her authority has been taken away by her attire. When she hears me enter, she turns, braid swinging like a mace-and-chain, eyes flashing their bright, dangerous silver.

She looks like she's about to instinctively ask me what I was doing there, but forces that back and says instead, "Hi, Grayson."

"Call me Dick, Tana. Everyone does."

"Do they."

"And so—I need to clarify. Just what were you trying to achieve by baking yourself back there?"

"It was something I'd considered doing before—I was faking my death to start over. Only before, I didn't really have a way to start over. If I stayed out there in Gotham, I figured some crime lord or other would find me eventually. But now Maroni thinks I'm dead, and hopefully word will get out that Omen isn't for hire anymore." She crosses her arms. "So, how am I supposed to earn my keep here?"

"Bruce is a billionaire, Tana. I don't think you'll have to worry about paying your dues."

She shrugs and turns back to the bookshelf.

She doesn't look like she's going to say anything else, so I speak up again. "So, did you want to play video games?" When she doesn't answer, I add, "Or we could go spy on Mayor Grange for money, either will do."

Tana shoots me a death glare, but it seems more exasperated than angry, and I feel like I'm making headway. I then teach her the wonders of the gaming system, which she's at first passive about, but finally starts to regard with more interest. We spent the next hour battling dragons, and it's when we hit the boss fight that I realize Tana has dropped all of her tough-girl armor.

"What!? That thing _can't_ kill me with fire. I'm freaking _made_ of fire." Her character starts getting low on health and I'm less focused on what my guy is doing, and more interested in watching Tana's fingers. They're flying over the controls with blinding speed. When her avatar is at critical health, I've barely even registered that I'm dead, as Tana is growling, "Aw, hell no," and gaming like the wind.

There's a muffled roar and the CG dragon boss goes down, Tana leaning back with a look of smug satisfaction. I shake my head and say, "I should take you down to see Jackson and Barbara at some point. They like games too, and I think you'd like them."

"Some of your friends?"

"Yeah." I notice her apprehensive face as she sets down the controller, and realization hits me. "You're not used to having friends."

"Of course I'm not. But it's nice so far."

I'm about to reply when Bruce sticks his head out of one of the Batcave entrances. "Dick, come here." He hesitates, seeing Tana with me, suspicion like a frozen crust over his blue eyes, but then says, "Tana, if you could come too." When we get there, he's looking up at a computer screen, which looks like it's analyzing an air sample and picking out two distinct molecules in the air. He gestures to it. "While I was watching the other night, I noticed a pair of windows that were larger than the others, like they'd been purposely renovated to be grander than the others. In last night's confusion, I managed to sneak in. It was a plush room and stank of cologne, but when I analyzed the air sample I took from it, there were two distinct ones. I synthesized more of each one. Tana, I want you to smell both of them and tell me if either smells familiar."

He holds out two vials, and she returns the one that has a brownish color. "This one. This is the one that Maroni wore." She sets the other one, a kind of icy blue, back onto the desk.

Bruce labels Maroni's and picks up the other one. "I didn't know about that one, but I recognize this one. It's exported to one place in Gotham for the use of a single person. Dick, remember what I've told you about training your senses. Where is this from?"

When he hands the vial to me, and I get a whiff, it's hard for me to place. The stuff wasn't overpowering, but it had almost a chilly snap, like the smell of snow on a cold day, or—

My eyes widen. "Iceberg Lounge."

Tana seems incredulous. "The fancy nightclub run by Oswald Cobblepot?"

"It isn't just a nightclub—it attracts both the high life of Gotham as well as criminals, and has become a place where illegal drugs are bought and sold. I haven't managed to amass enough proof to get the place shut down though, or make it clear that Cobblepot has any knowledge of what's going on. But he's been meeting with Maroni. After what happened tonight, I'm guessing that they're going to have another meeting, but since Maroni's place burnt down, where do you think he'll go?"

"Lounge," I confirm. "But do you think he'll go tonight?"

"No, he'll want to get his men in order first, and get some new accommodations. He'll most likely visit tomorrow night."

"Are we going to bust them in the act?" I'm cracking my knuckles, looking forward to another bout with Maroni—this time with my hands free.

"I am. You're staying here."

My face falls. "What?"

"You heard me. It's difficult to get in and to the meeting place from the outside. Bruce Wayne has easy access to the club, but minors don't. So take a day tomorrow. Why don't you go down and visit with Barbara and Jackson? Take Tana and get them introduced, since you'll probably all be meeting fairly often. I'll tell you how things went when I get back."

Bruce goes off to bed, but I'm nervous for him. He's going into the club as Bruce Wayne, but will have to get information. So either he'll put on his mask once he's inside, or he'll just try to be very careful about how he gets his info. Either way, he _has _to make sure that no one notices, seeing as he's an influential billionaire and Cobblepot is edging into the lead for mayor. He's about to play the most dangerous game in Gotham—the game of being a socialite.

* * *

The next day we have largely to ourselves. I drag Tana out of her room to show her some acrobatics, which she definitely has the muscle and balance for, and in return I convince her to tells me a few things about hacking and wall climbing. Alfred interrupts sometime around noon to hand Tana a stack of girls' clothes and to say, "And you might want to change into those sometime soon, since you'll be going to visit the Gordons in a couple of hours."

"People," she mutters darkly, looking out over the city. "What are they like?"

"The Gordons," I ask, "or people in general?"

"Gordons."

"Mrs. Gordon is really nice. She works at the library. Commissioner Gordon is the, uh, commissioner of the GCPD…" I look at Tana's _oh, great,_ face and protest, "But he's really nice, and it's not as if you've ever been caught, so that shouldn't be a problem."

"I locked his keys inside his car once, so that he wouldn't follow me."

"No one _knows_ that was you, Tana. Anyways, Barbara used to talk a lot, but she's calmed down. She's still kind of witty, and cheerful, so I, uh… don't know if you two'll get along. Jackson is Alfred's son, not really a Gordon, and he's quieter. Pretty geeky, in a cool way, if you know what I mean."

"My exposure to people has been limited, so I don't. But I'll consider it."

After Tana changes, she comes back out to find me walking around the couch on my hands, bored as hell. She watches for a few minutes, maybe trying to judge whether or not she could do it as well, but I'm expecting her to either return to her room or pass on when she says, "Would you like to learn a quicker way to pick a pin-and-tumbler lock, Grayson?" When I look at her in surprise, she shrugs. "Or we could go plan the Mayor's assassination, either will do."

My eyebrows shoot up even farther. "Did you just make a joke?"

"An honest effort," she says. She then chucks a lock at me and asks if I can get her lockpicking tools.

Alfred comes to get us a little while later, and by the time we've reached the Gordons' doorstep, Tana is looking as uncomfortable as she ever does, pulling her coat collar up around her face. Alfred chose aptly, getting her a large black trenchcoat that makes her look slightly like a raven. With long, braided hair.

Before I've even knocked the door flies open and Barbara is standing there, looking at both of us critically. "So, this is Tana." Barb strokes her chin. "Born on a bleak night in December?"

"April."

"Damn, so my intuition skills need some work." Barbara grins, holding out her hand. "Nice to meet you. I'm Barbara Gordon, and the skinny kid lurking behind the door is Jackson Pennyworth."

"I was _coming_, Barbara," says Jackson, pushing the door open wider to accommodate them both. Tana shakes his hand as well, and he quickly pulls his coat off the rack, checking the pockets and taking out a ring of keys. "Check. Babs, got your wallet?"

"Are we going somewhere?" I ask, since I never got a copy of the itinerary.

"Babs wants to try out that frozen yogurt place that opened up downtown," says Jackson, edging his way out. "So I hope you like yogurt, because she's not taking no for an answer."

"Right on," confirms Barbara, who's closing the door when Mrs. Gordon's face appears.

"Hello, Tana," she says. "I'm Ann." She then addresses the rest of us. "I want you kids home before dark, understood?"

"Got it, Mom!" Barbara quickly clicks the door shut and races down the staircase. I guess she _hasn't_ really outgrown her jumpiness. Jackson shrugs and follows her down, and Tana looks at me.

"From my understanding of yogurt, freezing it won't make it taste any better."

"It will," I promise. "Come on."

The walk downtown is interesting. Barbara and I make most of the conversation, with Jackson putting in a few words here and there. Tana mainly listens. After a while, I can see Barbara noticing Tana's withdrawal and trying to include her more, shooting off questions.

"Where are you from, Tana?"

"Gotham."

"D'you like guys, Tana?"

"Not particularly."

"Do you like cats?"

"I don't know."

I can see Barbara getting a feel for Tana's personality, and she switches tack. "How did you meet Mr. Wayne?"

Tana only hesitates for a flicker of a moment before admitting, "I was trying to break into his house."

Barbara only laughs. "Did you do it?"

"Halfway," says Tana. "I got in."

"And didn't make it out," Barbara finishes. "It's cool that you got in, though. And now you don't have to steal his stuff—it's practically yours now. How are you liking Wayne Tower?"

"It's big."

"What about the tech?" asks Jackson. "Wayne's got some pretty sick gadgets up there."

"Yeah." I can see that Tana is thinking about her gloves. "It's cool."

At one point, we try to cross the street and are nearly hit by a short man in a Chevy, despite the fact that he has a red light. He blares his horn, yelling at us. "Watch where yer goin', assholes!"

Jackson almost looks scared, which is comical, while Barbara and I uncomfortably try to cross faster. Tana pauses a moment to yell back. "Just 'cause that's as much of us as you can see doesn't mean that's all we are, Shortround!"

"Why you little—" But at that point, Tana's passed by, and the cars behind him are honking, and all he can do is give us the finger as he passes by.

Barbara seems impressed. "You came up with that burn really fast."

"I'm used to dealing with… unpleasant people. Actually, those are all I've ever dealt with." She looks at me. "It was kind of nice to deal with another one."

As we're walking and talking, I can see that Tana is actually enjoying her somewhat novel experience. She's looking at the alleys and homeless people that we pass, and then down at herself, and is reveling in the newfound sensation of belonging. The alleways were no longer her home, the vagrants not her people. She was normal. Walking down a street. With friends.

Once we've gotten our yogurt, Tana says to me, "I think I might even be getting bored soon." But her face is light, lips slightly curved, as happy as I've ever seen her. "But what do you know—food that didn't come out of a bag."

"It seems like you made a lot of money," I return, quietly, while Barbara and Jackson get into an argument over whether or not chocolate was a good accompaniment for orange. "But still didn't eat well?"

"I made more than before, and enough to keep me happy, but they'll only give you so much, and I had to space it out since I didn't know when the next job was coming. I also had to pay off some people to avoid cops, and had to be careful about where I went to avoid cops…and I gave what I didn't need to some of the people who needed it. So no, I didn't eat particularly well." She licks her spoon. "It's a nice experience, though."

At one point, Jackson mentions something about his yogurt being so cold that it burns, and when Barbara leans in close and whispers, "Like your heart," Tana makes a small noise that actually resembles a laugh.

We can see that it's getting dark, and are hurrying to get back when we find the small street that cuts directly to the Gordons' apartment blocked by construction. Barbara frowns. "When did that happen?"

"Apparently earlier today." Jackson checks his watch and then cranes his neck to see around the trucks. "Is there any way we can go around?"

"There's the back alleyway." Barbara looks uncomfortably at us, and we all know why. This is Gotham. Trying a back alleyway at dusk was about as stupid as you could get. But then again, once dark fell, the streets would be just as unsafe. Tana is looking curiously at us, realizing that we're only trying to be safe but clearly not used to it, and says, "I can go first if you guys want."

"It's either that or go back around," says Jackson. "I vote we try the alley."

I'm not too scared of being jumped either, but I don't want to get Barbara and Jackson into any trouble. And the more I defend myself in front of them, the more suspicious it looks. Tana goes first, and I bring up the rear, making my way through the soggy old fliers and discarded trash bags that line the pavement. We're all looking around us for signs of danger, and it's Jackson's lucky airhead cloudgazing that saves my life. "_Dick! Above you!_"

Above me? Muggers did not come from above, and the same confusion is reflected clearly in the faces of the others. But I'm already moving, and I hear a bullet ricochet off the trashcan behind me. As I flip around, feet squelching in the mud, I see a figure perched on the rooftop, only a silhouette against a blazing sunset sky, aiming and firing another round into the alley.

To be honest, dodging bullets is something I do fairly often. I'm worried about Jackson and Barbara, and maybe Tana. But as I'm yelling at them to run and watching Jackson shooting out of the alley, I see Tana walking backwards, picking a trashcan lid off the ground next to her and hurling it like a discus at the attacker. I can hear the clang as it collides with his forehead, and he collapses into a heap. But I notice movement out of the corner of my eye, and I see a second man, trying to find a target in the alley, since I'm hidden from him, and he settles on Tana. "Tana!" I yell, breaking cover to tackle her out of the way, the bullet making a nick in the wall. Before he can shoot again, Barbara yells "Hey!" and leaps up, grabbing the fire escape above us before swinging upwards and landing almost level with the opposite roof. The shooter pauses to look at her, which is his mistake, as she pulls out the brick she'd taken from the alley wall and chucks it at him. He doesn't make a sound, but the crunch of brick on teeth is clearly audible as he reels and falls.

"_Run_, Dick!" Barbara yells, landing with a dive roll back into the alley and grabbing my hand to pull me out to the street. Tana follows, covering the rear, and the three of us stumble out onto the sidewalk and don't stop running until we've reached the Gordons', which Jackson reaches first. "Guys, are you—"

"Fine," I say, panting. "We're fine." I look up at the two girls, who are surveying each other with mild curiosity. "Thanks, you two."

I don't think that either of them hears me over the volume of their stares. Tana speaks up first. "Nice throw, Gordon."

"Not too bad yourself, Drader." Barbara's curiosity gets the better of her, and she asks, "Where did you learn to do that?"

"The streets. You?"

"Gymnastics class."

Tana shrugs. "So I guess you can learn something." I feel like there's going to be some kind of explosion as they shake hands, but it's a normal handshake and we're back inside the apartment in a minute. Barbara tells her mother what's happened, who calls her father, since, well—muggers were normal, but shooters? No.

I lean over to Tana, asking quietly, "Was there someone else slated to kill me in case you couldn't?"

She's frowning. "No. Maroni _must_ be getting outside influence—he would never try an operation like this twice unless there was something huge in it for him. And he's using hired guns—inexpensive, but easier to trace, meaning he's getting desperate." She pauses, and looks concerned and confused before continuing. "Why did you break cover to warn me about the bullet? You could have just shouted."

"Oh." That wasn't a question I was expecting. "I don't know, it was just a reaction. You were in harm's way and I wanted to get you out of it."

"You put yourself in danger."

"So did you," I point out.

"No more than I already was in."

I can see that she's not going to be satisfied with those answers, and so continue. "You're becoming a part of the family, Tana. And if there's one thing worth risking your life for, or dying for, it's family. I hope you'll see what I mean later on."

But she looks like she already understands and hesitates, like she's about to say something, but changes her mind at the last second, just shaking her head. "I have no idea how we're supposed to get you out of—"

There's fierce knocking on the door, which Barbara answers, and Bruce is standing in the doorway, looking almost…nervous. "Tana, Dick, it's time to go."

"Bruce," I say, standing up quickly. "There was a—"

"I know. That's why we need to leave _now_. We're going to the mansion."

"The mansion? But—the election—"

"Will happen without me. Come on."

"Nice to meet you," says Barbara gloomily as the door closes behind us.

The minute we're in the car, Tana leans forward to address Bruce from the back seat. "So, it was Cobblepot?"

"Yes. He's the one who gave Maroni the idea to kill Dick in the first place. Maroni wanted to back out, but Cobblepot convinced him to try again, saying that Maroni will have full protection once Cobblepot is mayor. If any of Maroni's men see you in the city, they're to shoot you immediately."

Great, now I can't even go into the city. At least, not as Dick Grayson. I speak up. "So, now I just have to wait until dark to go—"

"No. He also put out a kill order on Robin."

I freeze. That couldn't be a coincidence… could it? "Do you think he knows?"

"I'm not sure what he knows, but what _I _know is that you can't leave the house until the election's over—that's when the kill order lets up. He just wants to keep us tied up until the election's over, I think. He thinks he'll be able to scrape a victory as long as Batman is out of his way."

"Wait, it's just _me_ that'll be out of the way, Bruce. _You_ can still—"

"No, I can't." We're finally exiting the suburbs, and Bruce floors it as he hits the open road. "He hinted that he had another assassin—one that might even be able to reach you inside the mansion. I'm going to spend a while upgrading security, but then I want to be on hand in case something happens."

I start to get angry. "Bruce, that's exactly what he wants."

"Well what do you _want_ me to do? Leave and hope you're still alive when I come back?"

"I've got Alfred, and Tana."

"Tana," he mutters darkly as we enter the gates of the Wayne estate. "No offense to Tana, but last I checked, she was the first person to break in and try to _murder_ you. Having her around doesn't exactly put me at ease."

I look back at Tana, but she only shrugs. "Can't argue with that."

I turn back to Bruce. "Can't we just out Cobblepot as being in league with Maroni?"

"With what proof? My illegal recorded conversation that could easily have been fabricated? And where did Bruce Wayne get a self-destructible listening device? We're staying in the mansion. If something does come up, we'll deal with it then." He finally stops the car in the middle of the circular drive and flings open his door. "Get in the house. Do it quickly." He scans the countryside and the lights of the city. "And don't open the door for anyone."


End file.
